I Am a Maker by Joan Currie

I love to behold beauty
in all its forms,
especially what the world offers
freely…
Rose-tinged sunrises,
a dragonfly resting on my hand,
cats’ eyes at dusk,
stones made smooth enough to skip.

But there is something nearly sacred
in making:
entering that quiet realm
where the hands know
what the mind cannot utter.

Nothing compares
to the birthing of my children,
those ultimate acts of making.

Still I take comfort in smaller
labors:
strands of embroidery floss,
skeins of wool,
tubes and palettes of paint.

And the ability to shape them
into something that lasts–
sometimes admired, worn or passed on,
carrying the warmth
of the hands that made it.