3 results for stemmed:swaddl
tray
Sonsire
sling
swaddled
Ken
(6:53 PM. “That’s all, I think.” Jane said. “I did the best I could.” Once again she’d spoken with what seemed to be considerable effort as she lay on her back, her head propped up on several pillows, her right arm swaddled closely in the blue and white canvas sling that held it close to her side and across her lower chest. Once again, I was amazed that she could function in such a capacity under present conditions. She’d used a number of pauses, as though gathering effort or strength for the next few words. But her voice had been considerably stronger than on the previous occasions.
memory
events
past
floating
future
Were you born once in winter,
in Europe’s ice and snow,
when villages were dark at night
and wolves roamed the towering hills?
Or dark-skinned, did your swaddling cry
pierce Egypt’s early dawn?
How many birthdays come and gone,
how many homelands, each your own?
How many loves have whispered through
the patterns of your mind?
How many sons and daughters have grown
from your womb or loins?
What voices merge with mine
to wish you happy birthday,
and what loves within your past
lay out a feast of wine and cakes?
