I write on a scrap of paper
you tucked into my book,
paper you made in your backyard studio
from pulp you shredded,
soaked, patted into frames to dry
with bits of weed stalks
adding texture to the mass.
At bottom left you pressed
a full-blown pansy, its little face
beaming as I write.
I’d like to wax brilliant
about the depth and worth
of my words on your art
but I know they’ll never mean
as much as this paper you made
and gave to me.
About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.