April’s Poet


The years hold us together
woven like twill undulating with daily browns
and greys making subtle the infrequent red,
the bright yellow, the hazy magenta.
Soft in our designer’s art we weave
the matrix we are, tie off our seams and send runners
out where new patterns are hoped for. I have pulled
a thread or two, cut a seam too thin and had to go
back, years later with new thread to patch it.
Once I threaded some bright orange wool, newly spun
into the old pattern and found a perfect match.
The blacks of years past melt into the present
soft grey like fields of heather and poppies.
We are intertwined, no form or color bears more
importance than the fabric of our bond.
Today seems a day for earth tones but I find myself
twirling strands of a deep vermillion in my hands.

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