Stain by Naomi Shihab Nye
I think it’s time for another Naomi Shihab Nye poem.
Stain
By Naomi Shihab Nye
She scrubbed as hard as she could with a stone.
Dipping the cloth, twisting the cloth.
She knew the cloth much better than most,
having stitched its vines of delicate birds.
The red, the blue, the purple beaks.
A tiny bird with head held high.
A second bird with fanning wings.
Her fingers felt the folded hem.
The water in her pan was cool.
She stood outside by the lemon tree.
Children chattered around her there.
She told the children, “Take care! Take care!”
What would she think of the world today?
She died when she was one hundred and six.
So many stains would never come out.
She stared at the sky, the darkening rim.
She called out to the children, “Come in! Come in!”
She stood on the roof, tears on her face.
What was the thing she never gave up?
The simple love of her difficult place.
