Basically, what we do is all fresh.

Afghan Girl

Ice blue eyes that look to the morning sky as I knit the pieces and remnants of my life. I have No books, no paper, no pencils, and no black boards. I look at the holes in my life as I see the hills of the Appalachians that echo. I think to myself, who will I marry? Is my life-like Pari?

These strings please come together.

Snowflakes give me hope, and my dreams dance all around me. I‘ll put another log on the fire. I watch the brown paper bag over the broken glass pane letting the cold wind in; I’ll take some of these remnants and stuff it.

These strings are come together.

Mama told me that life would be hard. I bartered for flour the other day, and the chickens ain’t laying no eggs. I struggle with life and these strings. My hands are worn and tired. Now, I have granny square hands.
I am unclean, unblemished, and finished,

Afghan girl.

Because we put a lot of love in our biscuits, we take a lot of time and patience with 'em, and I have a few secrets.

Dr. King was always, you know, we were glad to see him come to Chicago. I mostly catered when I started with the Civil Rights workers, and we used to wait for them to come back from, when they were out picketing, and we were real busy.

Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling.

A whole roomful of Jews is like a charged battery. The vitality sparks seem to fly, and frequently the result is a short circuit.