Turtle toes the ground

Words, brittle, rough-edged things that
once hurt my hands, are liquid now
that I don't need them. I write backwards, cut,
reassemble, cut again.

But images:
they're new wolves.
I love them, fear them, love them.

Images and words, vessels
of experience,
questions,
quiet, touches,
or what seems abandonment
but isn't, are released
to ride time, a river.

Let go. And yet they stay. 

Bits of me, mirror-fragments sewn in patterns
on my hand-wove cloth,
shine,
if a sea-breeze rises,
if a night-wind hammers my sleep
while stars are watching
for the dawn.

Me, the patterned gauze. You, the bright bits sewn upon it.
We, my stories.

#anexplanationofwhereIvebeen #aquestionofwhereImgoing

#celadonrefix #revised #poem

© Heather Gail Quinn, 2015.02.15, edited 2019.02.26, all rights reserved.