Amore e pianto, vivono accanto


These shriveled seeds we plant,
corn kernel, dried bean,
poke into loosened soil,
cover over with measured fingertips


These T-shirts we fold into
perfect white squares


These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips
This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl


This bed whose covers I straighten
smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown blanket
and nothing hangs out


This envelope I address
so the name balances like a cloud
in the center of sky


This page I type and retype
This table I dust till the scarred wood shines
This bundle of clothes I wash and hang and wash again
like flags we share, a country so close
no one needs to name it


The days are nouns:  touch them
The hands are churches that worship the world


 ~ Naomi Shihab Nye ~


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