PIECEWORK

 

PIECEWORK

Weaving back the threads the moths have broken,

Time, dust, fire spoiled

The tear of the soul on the brambles

Foraging among the wild roses and

The castle no longer visible from the road.

Weaving back the threads it feels

Like I am spinning from myself

And wounding a self at its half life

Leaking light

A gold and silver I no longer hold 

Mysteriously dispensing

Bits of broken glass, stained glass

Kaleidoscope materials the muted cry of swans

The flowers trampled on the lawns in the violet dusk

You must you must continue I hear the ghosts confirm

As long as you have even one breath left

All beauty to discern, to call aloud

A scattering in the pale green of the smallest stars.

All the mind cannot contend with with things as they are

As former trees become more gnarled

Confused by their myriad rings

Bits of what I am or was I have woven back

Singing the meager songs I still have left to sing

Taking from one part to enhance the other

Losing this way to recover even one ray of light

Sewn into the fabric what is left of my dreams

I patch it all remembering so many predecessors

Until the seams shine with finally

disappearance, my half leaning on the blossoming wind.

Mary angela douglas 22 march 2024