Gone are summer warm days;
Here are the winter doldrums ways.
I flip a coin to see,
What will happen to me.
The holiday isn’t a distraction
I’m not into the skid and traction.
For a lifetime up unto even seventy
I’ve defeated the psychiatrist melee,
With practices of my own making,
And suddenly my mind I’m raking,
What are the things I’ve done to win
Over those who are so grim?
Think, think, remember now!
What method did I hook to my bow?
Little stuffed animals for children’s gifts
Fall from my sewing machine and the lifts
Are the past little tools of my trade,
Once I again I face blue and black, unafraid.
A gentleman of no acquaintance,
Spoke to me like one of the saints,
“I have one of your potholders,” he said with a smile,
“Got it when you spoke to our history club for a while.”
Another child held up their ceramic necklace,
Painted on it was a frog’s face.
“I love this little necklace you made for me!”
The boy said, “It’s just the right thing, you see.”
He spoke with a child’s innocent grace,
So here I am, once again, toe to toe with space.
Let me at ‘em those emotions so cool,
These of the crafters; we are no fool.
The cost of scraps and shards are nil,
Especially when tied in with will.
