Rhapsody

//02: book.

i find my usual spot between the tall grasses
that danced to the soft winds.
i sit,
and pull out my notebook;
its cover was made from the hide of
one of our neightbour's oxen, whom they
killed for his meat.
my father had tanned it for me, with my brother
helping; and my mother had dyed it
to this maroon shade.

i think it is rather like the color of blood;
oftimes i wonder how my mother made the dye.

there are not many blank pages
left in it. many have fallen out; the binding was not
the best,
but my mother had sewed it all together,
and so i swore never to switch it for another.

i reach into the pockets of my cardigan -
grey wool, well-worn, sprayed every day with
my mother's old perfume bottle -
and run my fingers over
the grey graphite pencils there.

i pick a short, stubbly one
that will soon be nothing but maybe
an inch of lead.

                             { i put pencil to paper
                                        and try to
                                                      create. }