Edith Speers: Two Poems

my rags

at the top is the grey wool beanie,

washed three times in thirty years

only because of goat drool

the tee shirts have random rot holes,

frayed neck lines

and smears of paint or varnish

the flannel shirts are torn at the tail,

shredded by brambles or wire,

and grubby from gardening

the pullovers have ravelled cuffs,

smudges of putty or silicon

and big holes in the elbows

the jeans are split across the knees,

not torn but worn through,

with tangled threads dangling down

my rags don’t go out to parties,

they just stay at home

with me

but i’m happy when i wear them

so i guess you could say

they’re my glad rags

Edith Speers

no idea

you’ve got no idea

of how long and dark is the highway

that leads to my home

how it worms its way into hiding

how it climbs and descends

how it narrows

how the trees tower and crowd

how few are the houses

but the trip is a rosary

the telling of stories like beads

for each place no matter how empty

is rich with memories

ripe as a seed well-soaked with rain

or well-seared by fire

ready to waken and grow

i have no idea

how long and dark is the highway

that leads to your home

but has the trip been a rosary?

is it the telling of stories like beads?

is it rich with memories?

Edith Speers