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Gratefulness
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 to another’s. Witness how well we quilt ourselves into something useful from singular desolation.
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.
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