the bottles of tincture,
daughter, and disturb the pattern
of my work. It seems futile
for me to ask you not to purse
your lips at every offered proof.
Oh, father, what tender proof
could I offer to you how fond
I am of thinking and pursing
my lips as I do. Your tincture
bottles are just my hand's futile
attempts of finding a pattern.
Do not speak to me of patterns
of thought as I seek a proof
of what is probably an alchemical futility.
Have no doubt that I touch and fondle
the cool glass, too, of my tinctures,
but I do not slip them into my purse.
Ashamed I am that in my purse
of such beautiful handwoven pattern
I have secreted a necessary tincture
and here in my hand is the proof
of it. See how I fondle
your work which I know is not futile.
Oh, daughter, I find it is futile
for me to be angry of your purse
and what it hides. You fondle
my heart; that is our pattern.
Of your love and your shame, no proof
I need from you, only my tincture.
Father, it is a beautiful tincture.
It was foolish and futile
of me to take it. Here is the proof
in my hand, taken from my purse.
Your thought, your work, is your pattern.
It is that, and not me, you fondle.
My work's proof is in this tincture,
which you have fondled, yet it was futile
to hide it in your purse, my love, my living pattern.
* * * * *
I wrote the first four stanzas and then got interrupted. It took me a while to get back to it and finish it.