by Ruth Moose

 

This simplest of tools

perhaps began as twigs

twined to a stick by someone

in a far away cave in a long

lost time who said, “Look,

This saves my back, farthers

my reach.”

 

I’ve met Daughter Brooms

in many lands. Some with carved

handles, special angles

of sweep, heads braided

in wire or rags.

 

Brooms sing songs of pushing,

having been jumped over, swept clean,

being new and ridden on wild rides.

They are country cousins

to the street sweeper; machines

that wear giant mustaches

and groom with loud

proclamations.

 

Electric brooms kid themselves.

The mother of all brooms

is a wieldy hose on a whirling

heart that sucks our lint

into a liner and rests

in a special place.

 

Think of vehicles for witches,

or the game played at Hogwarts,

how we yearn for sweeping, flying

magic in our lives.