bookblather (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2012-02-03 10:48 pm
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2012-02-03 10:48 pm
Rust 15: Christening
Author: Kat
Title: Christening
Story: In The Heart
Colors: Rust 15 (This was mine when I was young.) with Sara's paint-by-numbers (Summer gives something special to her son.).
Supplies and Materials: Frame (since Thomas is born), stain (In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite. - Paul Dirac).
Word Count: 124.
Rating: G.
Summary: Summer, on her son.
Warnings: none.
Notes: I always seem to write sonnets when I'm down. A somewhat meta use of the stain.
I do not know what I should bring a child
whom I have borne, have carried my womb.
Some'd say the world, but that's a gift too wild
For you, my son, who's just begun to bloom.
A roof, warm clothes, a blanket, and your keep;
These are not gifts but duty, what you're owed.
So you can lie in comfort's silent sleep,
I shall most willingly take up that load.
To bring you toys, and pillows full of fluff,
Is but a bid for smiles, ne'er a chore.
I gave you life; some say 'tis gift enough
But still I feel I owe you something more.
And so, my child, this all else above,
I give what I've been given; take my love.
Title: Christening
Story: In The Heart
Colors: Rust 15 (This was mine when I was young.) with Sara's paint-by-numbers (Summer gives something special to her son.).
Supplies and Materials: Frame (since Thomas is born), stain (In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite. - Paul Dirac).
Word Count: 124.
Rating: G.
Summary: Summer, on her son.
Warnings: none.
Notes: I always seem to write sonnets when I'm down. A somewhat meta use of the stain.
I do not know what I should bring a child
whom I have borne, have carried my womb.
Some'd say the world, but that's a gift too wild
For you, my son, who's just begun to bloom.
A roof, warm clothes, a blanket, and your keep;
These are not gifts but duty, what you're owed.
So you can lie in comfort's silent sleep,
I shall most willingly take up that load.
To bring you toys, and pillows full of fluff,
Is but a bid for smiles, ne'er a chore.
I gave you life; some say 'tis gift enough
But still I feel I owe you something more.
And so, my child, this all else above,
I give what I've been given; take my love.
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Thank you!
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I don't know if that makes any sense? Just... *fumbles* when a line like "A roof, warm clothes, a blanket, and your keep; These are not gifts but duty, what you're owed" hurts, it's OBVIOUS that's because reality was fucked up, not because my expectations were too high. It... *moar fumbles*...
...gyrocompass? :-) You write a world like a map that always points the right way. (Because that's the world you live in, but still -- you WRITE it, and that means people like me can see it, and that is awesome.)
<333333
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