Flutterings

For catrinella, because it is her fault I wrote this just now:

There's what we want to say, and then there's what
we actually manage to write and to share:
there's what we strive to make, with what we brought

away from Chicago, the books we bought
in England... in Boston... a parish fair...
there's what we hoped to say, and then there's what

we shape from the bones of our demons -- fought
down so often, yet how they reappear,
insisting what we need cannot be caught --

well, fuck that. You know it's not for naught --
that what we spin and style is worth the care
we lavish when we can, the joy it's brought

(and glee, and provocation, even thought-
provoking musings and the occasional tear...) --
these triumphs be -- our words, these things we've wrought --

that what we wring from what we've loved and sought --
it may not be our best, what we can spare,
but what we manage to make? Well, it's what

will do for now, it being what we've got:
"good enough" is more than many ever dare.
You use your pen for good, love. Worry not.

Part 9.

For xanthophyllippa. 1. Knitting lessons...

Sonnet, U, post-War. Only the faintest connection to the prompt...


Their lives are knit together in a spell
that needs not wands nor charged incantations --
they seldom speak of love, nor do they dwell
on friends long lost nor fruitless lamentations.
Wizards and witch, their lives are not blameless
but yet of their worth, the stories will tell --
of grudges and guilt, of blatant and shameless
king-making, heart-breaking, soul-taking, bell-
quaking feats enlaced with quiet, well-thought
manipulations...but, for now, they teach
and meet for tea. Snape had not known he sought
this ease, this care from those within his reach.
Minerva pours tea. Lupin murmurs grace.
Here ends this tale, the three of them in place.