My skin’s an old recycled flour sack:
a would-be calico that barely rates
as simple unbleached muslin; basted, slack,
and hung where pocket lint accumulates.
My mind is made of seven yards of denim.
Utilitarian, these rugged genes
can take a lot of needlin’ with me in ’em,
and durably expand beyond their means.
My spirit is a bolt of silk—no cloth
more intricately patterned, finely spun.
Sometimes I am the worm, sometimes the moth.
I ravel when I’m cut, but seldom run.
Though seamingly my id’s all tuck and nip,
it’s written: “As ye sew, so shall ye rip.”
2001 Mary Boren
Image courtesy of Bee Creative (Visit blog for more creative repurposing ideas.)
If my body is a temple
for the Spirit of the Lord,
who’s responsible for keeping
every window, tile and board
in presentable condition,
as befitting royalty?
I’m that nonchalant custodian
entrusted with a key.
The deposit has been covered
with a waiver for the rent.
Grace secured for me a mansion;
I’ve disguised it in a tent.
Curtains sewn from silk and velvet
hang like tattered calico.
Lick-and-promise doesn’t cut it
in the faded afterglow.
It’s a partnership arrangement.
No decision is coerced
from an occupant who doesn’t
choose to serve the Owner first.
But the maintenance is easy
when the basics are obeyed:
His to flood the place with Heaven’s light,
and mine to raise the shade.
2002 Mary Boren