Seeds of Honesty

A bowl of kitchen nic-nacs, an arrangement
of dried flowers, a sink of messy dishes
and a child on the floor behind me, scrabbling
around in the plastics of the bottom drawer.
Hoisting himself up to the top drawer,
he reaches a knife, that shining weapon
his parents wield so fearlessly.
A triumph - he has Excalibur in hand.
I hesitate, but he turns up a face
delicate and brittle like the seeds of ‘honesty’
in great transparent rounds of thinnest fibre,
an open disc to read a fragile soul.
I say ta and he hands it over like a treasure
then quickly grabs another. Soon I have a fistful
of knives and forks. I must end this daring game
because he can’t, but seems to know his flight
has reached its peak and, content
kneels down to his plastic bits.
I rearrange the vase of ‘honesty’.

 

© Ros Schulz