a rather old fashioned story of a godmother who lived in Polonia

Posted: August 15, 2010 in Uncategorized
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on the road to Polonia, a town of black birds filled with gentle songs, there was a godmother stitching a quilt of promises with twelve silver needles. in between sitdowns she busied herself by repotting fern-dream  hybrids with a cast iron spoon. in  the aftermath she brushed away crumbs of trials and tribulations with a folded old apron.   in between she retired many glances of hope into parcels of oilcloth and pigskin. she couldn’t before the end hide the  pair of ravens from the first female cousin who watched all along from behind a sooty pot and the morning came and went, full of grain, full of husk, the sails of wants pressed and put away, never to be lamented out loud, neither by spinster, nor commandant.  The heather bloomed and dried, she dressed her wounds in sage and wondered who had fathered the song she heard:  “I will happily thee wed, before my beauty is all gone” and she tied one more perfect knot to the next thread in line  to be cut, she pressed the dark dirt around the hybrids one more time, she threw a crumb to the ravens outside the window and eyeing the parcels of oilcloth and pigskin she undressed and stepped into the tub for her evening bath.

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