I cut, she says, I cut, Mama.
As if they were hedging shears
she opens and closes the blades with
both hands, the advice I offer ignored.
The scissors twist in her clenching.
Apparently, my job is to turn the paper
to the blades, feeding it perpendicular,
tightening the flimsy edge until
a portfolio emerges, page after page
with fringed borders, a floor
debauched with nicked scraps.
Fiercely, she metes out the paper’s
punishment, snick after snick, her face
a bud of concentration. By the time
the floor is vacuumed—twice—
she’s embellished seven sheets.
Once I let go of my need to teach.
Once she understands what is possible.
Chris Dahl cups handfuls of murky pond-water hoping to examine another world half-hidden in this one. Her chapbook, Mrs. Dahl in the Season of Cub Scouts won Still Waters Press “Women’s Words” competition. Extensively published, she also serves on the Olympia Poetry Network board and edits their newsletter.
What a lovely little poem! “Her face a bud of concentration,” is my favorite line.
ReplyDeleteThis is what most parents go through while raising children—a mom ever-busy cleaning up the messes. And here, we have someone else watching the child make messes. And the lesson here by the great aunt eager to give advice? Let go, let it happen. Let the child learn on her own.
And maybe a little bit of let someone else clean it up. A wise, experienced great aunt! A lesson here for two co-conspirators.
Agree that "Her face a bud of concentration" is fabulous!
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