FAMOUS
by Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.

~~~

i have come to e-know so many people through blogs, each (you know who you are) famous to me in their own way. two women are particularly famous tonight because not only did they not forget what they could do, they took action and did it!

julie and laney are sweet, empathetic, generous souls who read my whines about threadless days i’m enduring as we move, and they each put together a care package and mailed it to me.

from julie:

and from laney:

from both: delicious fabrics in a variety of colors and textures, needles, thread, scissors, batting, paper and colored pencils, several downright thought-provoking morsels – everything i need to satisfy my itching hands, soothe my soul, and stoke my inquiring mind.

thank you both, for your thoughtful, caring generosity. i will have sweet, sweet dreams tonight as visions of stitching plums dance in my head . . .