Progress

I try to mend
the unruly tapestry of my life
my fingers brittle and bleeding
I work on the go
cannot stop
so the pace is slow
barely perceptible
the old discarded threads
still lick my ankles as I walk away


but every now and then I step into a clearing
and the sun turns the leaves yellow
and though I know I cannot linger
(there’s more worksore travel ahead)
I bask briefly in the respite
and I tread on
my stitches slightly looser

with a new depth to my lungs.
with a new small glow.

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