we are primitive cloth, words
tightly bound, truth caught
between the warp and weft
of us.  it is true that our
hands are sore, rubbed raw
with the ever-quickening
pulling and tightening,
twisting and casting away.

it was fate, perhaps?  perhaps
not but still, know this;
that which is thrown across us,
the straight and narrow of
our lives, is faltering, the
structure unsound, unraveling


And it stops.  It just ends.  Why are certain pieces so hard?

Today I am sun-worn pavement, blades of grass between the cracks, tiny green heads threatening to spill over and cover the walk in a thick, fragrant carpet.  Vintage teapots mis-matched, filled with handfuls upon handfuls of wildflowers, pollen and dust mites hanging lazily in the afternoon sun.  A ruffled apron slung low across my hips, pearls dripping from my neck and a hand-carved brass key tucked away in my back pocket.  I wish I could show you this.