The keen golden-silver blades
of my old uncle’s fine scissors
point eagerly forward
as I trace and cut out
puppets for the children.
How many times he must have
held these gleaming handles,
eased and smiled
as his own stellar scenes
were outlined, clipped into view,
pointing to friends and fellows,
while the strewn-muddled
broadsheets edging his life
fell far from his thoughts.
A luminous hold he gifted me
as he celebrated my childhood
and cherished my growing character,
teaching me the essence of
holding on to scenes of beauty or meaning,
and to the juxtaposition of colors,
and to the coexistence of bewilderment and treasure.
This treasure of his legacy in my hand
outlines the drive to find and form
and reveals a rare tableau
of clarity and grace.
For even when ragged edges remain,
shadows and fringes can be strong.
His absolute love shapes me still.