Peggy Aylsworth – II
Needles and Good Bread
Whose body is this on the examining table?
Oh! it seems to be mine, once again.
Outside, the sky has flung its panoply of blue,
a blanket of comfort.
The familiar needle
stabs, not as the sudden strike of love
but as the nettle’s stinging hairs invade
the doe, though
I have choice. Does she
recover nibbling on a tender green?
For me, a bite of crusty bread, its center
soft, a little sour,
will banish minor slings,
the paltry wounds that chill the skin.
Just yesterday my ardent counterpart
informed me
that my love of pan rests in
the heart of the friendliest of words: companion.
Break bread, indeed, with the taste of touch.
Whose body is this on the examining table?
Oh! it seems to be mine, once again.
Outside, the sky has flung its panoply of blue,
a blanket of comfort.
The familiar needle
stabs, not as the sudden strike of love
but as the nettle’s stinging hairs invade
the doe, though
I have choice. Does she
recover nibbling on a tender green?
For me, a bite of crusty bread, its center
soft, a little sour,
will banish minor slings,
the paltry wounds that chill the skin.
Just yesterday my ardent counterpart
informed me
that my love of pan rests in
the heart of the friendliest of words: companion.
Break bread, indeed, with the taste of touch.
