We are tattered bits of cloth
looking for pattern
in the dependable void.
At dusk, when fevers rise
colors are more beautiful:
the day rinsed of its complaints,
weariness gentling us.
Gray of rock or guns?
Startle of red bird in pine
or blood in ripe grass?
Golden sunglitter on sand
or dazzle of bombs?
Blue Giotto snow or planeless sky?
Fiery end, stars ignited in blackest night.
Mud, bamboo, diamonds, steel,
gold, bolts of fabric, paper and pen.
Who is to say what is more useful
or what feeds us best?
We have our work: stitching passion
Witness how well we quilt ourselves
We have tools: eyes to watch, hands
to soothe, our minds to fasten to
breath, our breath to words, to curse,
to praise our ragged world.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
Photo by Kostiantyn Li/Unsplash.
Two nights after he died, all night I heard the same one-line story on repeat:…
For times of grief and sorrow, we offer this curated collection of poems as a…
Somewhere someone needs help. Send love. It matters. If you can’t get there yourself, then…
This site is brought to you by A Network for Grateful Living, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit. All donations are fully tax deductible in the U.S.A.
© 2000 - 2022, A Network for Grateful Living
Website by Briteweb