Not Much Left
Things disappear
I'm on my knees again
cleaning hair & dust
from the rug garden
fraying I learn
the knotted pattern
four arched heart
wild geese flown
The sand I built upon
blows through the weft
It began with lists, and books, and pieces that didn't fit the flow of outside the windows. Lately it has been a safe keeping spot for poetry as well
3 Comments:
How time slows when we are at our most desperate. How details catch and hold us. You write it so well.
I've known this and will again very soon! Beautifully rendered.
This is like an infant Shakespearean sonnet... I like the turn at the end.
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