Mitten Strings

Nostalgia filters memories
Coloring the stories we tell ourselves
With rejection and strife
With passion and might

Trees are giants
Parents are absent
We live alone amidst forest creatures
And dancing leaves

Snowflakes are the size of silver dollars
Nighttime is dense and humming
Within the vacuum, one sound
Stars tinkle above

The snow drifts so high
We can tunnel to Siberia
Meeting there, little maids
Stacked infinitely and split in the middle

Adventures are held in the mind
Or did they play out in reality?
Visions of youth, innocent things
Bound up in mitten strings


Write along with me!
Write along with me!

13 Replies to “Mitten Strings”

  1. Memories many times are intermingled with dreams in our minds. Reality and fantasy. Your poem is a lovely reminder of what we are all made of.

    1. Thank you! This is one of my favorite things I’ve written. I’m obsessed with personal narratives, filtered by nostalgia and time, and am glad to have finally written a bit about that!

  2. I also love the picture. I thought of you last week when they did a story about farmers and their families carving and painting the nesting dolls during the harsh winters in Russia. You have always loved them.

    1. Oh yes! I watched that on the Olympic coverage and just stared wide-eyed with a huge smile and even tears! I just… wasn’t that magical?!? I have 4 sets of stacking dolls, but only one set is authentic and handcrafted. I would LOVE more!

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