I try to mend
the unruly tapestry of my life
my fingers brittle and bleeding
I work on the go
so the pace is slow
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.