I am obnoxious to each carping tongue Who says my hand a needle better fits. Anne Bradstreet There in Massachusetts We built our "city upon a hill" For all the world to see And find example in-- But that first winter There was just the land, Lying before us Like a vast unfinished garment-- And my cold hands holding needle Were only female And busy with the work of babes. The men would slash and shape the earth, And style to God's design The stuff of law and state; I had small garments of my own To fashion. So in the chill Of winter nights by candle-- When the children were in bed-- Why did my hand, shaped only For the shaft of spinning wheel Or bar of cradle, Dare to grasp a pen? Perhaps it was the bare house, The wolf's howl, the Indians, The memory of those months of shifting sea-- And Simon gone away for days; Perhaps the words, dancing into shape In neat and airy couplets, Imposed design on savage vastness And hemmed up the ragged edge of newness With thread from across the seas. So between the cradle And the oven, with fresh brown Bread baking and infants babbling, I wrote, and Simon understood.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com