Friday, June 30, 2006

Poetry, Sorta

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 :

bensmumma said...

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.