‘.…at these times, how I yearn
to be wrapped once more in
the loose muslin of infancy,
that let the whey through, but
not the curds, the berries but
no seeds…
I would pull them so very tight
and make a wish for something.
to make a Wish
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What wonderful imagery. Love this simple piece.
The loose muslin of infancy is a gorgeous choice
I mourn the world that is left to my offspring, and, fearfully, my part played within it. What is defined by the inevitable disappointments of age, and what by some impending sense of doom? "The old order changeth, yielding place to new. And God fulfils himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world." Or is that vain hope?