It occurs to me
In bed
with love and books and paper and pen
One Sunday morning, reading random
common experiences about
the joys of motherhood that
One memory tags another to
weave life’s rich tapestry.
When you share a memory
with me, our fabrics become
Stitched together in
Our common patchwork quilt,
keeping us warm in our downy creation.
May ours be beautiful stitch work.
Quilts turn to dust in tucked away cobweb trunks.
The handworks of our ancestors are
tattered and unsavable, time unweaving their existence.
Now, Our binary cacophony sings louder to faraway places
with a million ears.
Who knows how long our words will last?
And how many cloths our cloths overlap?
You, hearing my words,
You matter to me.
You matter.
May ours be beautiful stitch work.
No comments:
Post a Comment