Holes, a single thin line stretching.
Why am I making lace?
A fabric barely there.
I turn old soon, and I don't like it.
Regrets, regrets.
Children are spit-spliced onto parents.
I suppose I should have had some.
Art Saves Lives, the pin says.
I made quilts to find out who I am.
I put the pieces together so the seams disappeared.
Splice a whole cloth from yards cut up and sewn back together.
When does my lace tell me who I am now?
1 comment :
It's so easy to look back and say "coulda, shoulda, woulda". I do it too. It's taken me a long long time to decide to be happy where I am, when I am. Regardless.
I still dream.
Rachel
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