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Buttons Ken Autrey
Rainy days, aimless, I scooped through the marble-cool coinage of Mother's button box, rubbed wooden charms between thumb and finger until the grain rose like spun gold, buffed brass nuggets until they glowed, strung them on thread like beads. The river obscures what it doesn't salvage. Older, I breach woven waters to heft and inspect those worn pebbles. A fist of leaves eases by on the current, checkered swatch of cloth, memory riddled with holes and barely afloat. |
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