[Knitting A Conundrum]

Perle, plesaunte to prynces paye
To clanly clos in golde so clere,
Oute of Oryent, I hardyly saye,
Ne proved I never her precios pere.
So rounde, so reken in uche araye,
So smal, so smothe her sydes were,
Queresoever I jugged gemmes gaye
I sette hyr sengeley in synglure.
Allas, I leste hyr in on erbere;
Thurgh gresse to grounde hit fro me yot.
I dewyne, fordolked of luf-daungere
Of that pryvy perle withouten spot.

(The opening of what might be the best late medieval poem in English, IMHO....)

[NicknamedBob]

Pearls

Children are a lot like pearls. It takes some grit to start,
And then you nurse them like a grudge, and keep them near your heart.
You want to give them shelter, to protect them from the world,
But they keep growing bit-by-bit. You end up "Mother of Pearl"ed.

Your face takes on a lustre, your heart a softened edge,
And you don't want to surrender them, it takes the sharpest wedge,
To pry them from your fingertips, to tear them from your grip.
Only giving them up to love can make you let them slip.

Children must learn their way in life. They are, of course, your seeds,
They cannot grow to strength themselves, unless chance meets their needs.
They find it while away from you, and as they search and explore,
But only you will know the little bit of hurt that is at their core.

NicknamedBob . . . . August 6, 2005