Mending

I am sewing up a pair of old blue jeans.
The silver flash of the needle is like a fish,
swimming through riffles of worn white thread.
It swims back and forth across the sea-cave of the small tear:
Through, across, up. Through, across, up.
the 1-2-3, 1-2-3 rhythm of a silent waltz.

Unbidden,
a thought comes to mind.

I am here to mend small things.

I am here to feed the bees that land on the windowsill occasionally.
to mix tap water and plain sugar
into a whitish syrup that allows them to continue their journey.
I am here to open the window, when they are ready to fly again.

I am here to smile at babies in grocery stores,
and here to smile at parents with full arms and tired children.
I am here to stand, sometimes, in the woods and hear the silence.

I have a body to lift and to carry what is needed to wherever it is needed.
I have a mind that can see what needs to be done.
Sometimes, I think I can see the truth that this is
more than enough.  

By Jane Elizabeth Yarnell