My fingers are beautiful: slender and lithe,
At home on the harpsichord keys.
The tunes that they play are delightfully light
Like rainbows adrift in the breeze.
My fingers are magical: stunningly quick,
They star in sensational shows
Of puppetry and unbelievable tricks.
Attuned to my wishes, they close
So gently around a pencil to draw
A tree full of delicate buds.
My fingers are pitiful: wrinkly and raw
From battling an ocean of suds.
The slosh of the water, the hiss of the steam:
An endless monotonous flow
Of numbness amid the unstoppable stream
Of daydreams.
Ungainly and slow,
My fingers are set in their ways: they refuse
To venture too far from the tub.
At home on the washboard, they play me no tunes.
Hush hush, they remind me, scrub scrub.
Camille Pissarro, Washer in the Garden of Eragny, 1899
the washerwoman
© Copyright: Людмила Прасад, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123092100639
Свидетельство о публикации №123092100639
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