I collect many scraps throughout my day...
scraps of fabric aplenty, from projects
unfinished or never started, sleeves cut
from beloved shirts too worn to wear.
Scraps from the carrots, apples and
cabbage, detritus of the day’s salad or
soup. These go to my chicken friends,
and I hoard their murmured chuckles
as they feast.
Scraps of conversations (the most intriguing)
overheard in the checkout line or while browsing
the bookstore, confidences that drift between
the shelves or over the groceries.
Scraps of memories that
float to the surface of my
day, like tea leaves from
the bottom of a cup.
But light?
I cannot think of light as scraps.
Perhaps a glint or two from a
fallen coin in the parking lot.
But light is soft and seeking,
or can be harsh and glaring,
often a comfort, although
sometimes it is what reveals
unhappy truths. This morning’s
light flows up from the whiteness
of the snowy yard to meet the
dawn trickling down through
the branches.
In the kitchen, I watch the
day’s arrival while sipping
from a cracked mug, and
buttering the last scrap
of toast.