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.