Thursday, August 26, 2010

For my mother

We try to stretch days, time, our lives. I can hear it screech, sometimes I can hear it creak and snap. I still can't stand up straight since J was born. I'm crawling about on my hands and knees in the dark, with my face in the dirt.
Silver is annealed by the application of heat. Softened so it can be worked. Train the point of a blowtorch on the metal and watch as it reddens, from deep cherry to a dull red and on until its bright orange. When it glows like this, unbearably, it is ready to work.

2 comments:

Jo said...

Oh, good lord. Scary and true.

Craig Sorensen said...

I still marvel at how very much you can pack into so few words, Nikki.

The many layers of this drabble will stay with me.