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At the heart of it I would give you
The threads of all that made this cloth….
The blaze of the sugar maples in late afternoon, fallen leaves,
paling, turning brown,crackling around our ankles as we scuffed
long.
The smell of fires in the Saturday dusk,
Our fathers in plaid woolen shirts lean on
their rakes…contemplating their kingdoms with satisfied
eyes.
Behind steamy kitchen windows
our mothers, benevolent in homemade shirtwaists and aprons
stand watch.
Come home when the lamps come on.
We learned to watch for the softening of
the day,
The easing into dark.
Just at the hour when edges fade,
the streetlamps would send us home.
 An
original poem by Joy Veaudry, RIBCC member and trained breast
cancer advocate. Joy died after a long struggle with her diagnosis
and metastatic disease. She had 2 books of poetry published.
This reading is from her book "A Clear Path Home".
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