MM ( / )


To cruel, hard hands,
The willow will not yield.
To force it is to break it.
It must be lead, gently,
To obey its own nature,
To achieve its own destiny.

Then will emerge a shape with purpose.
Form will mirror function
And the basket will be content.
Fulfilled in its own existence.
As with the soul of a child.

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Comments (2)

This Man knows what he's talking about, I have one of his 'contented' baskets, and there is soul in this poem Michaeleen.
My husbands aunt used to make beautiful baskets, in all shapes and sizes, with cane and willow, they were beautiful. I did some backet weaving at school many years ago, but I still love baskets, they are very alive things. A super poem about them. Love Ernestine XXX