Poem: subtle stitchery

My native tongue is writing letters.

I explain who I am and why you matter to me.

I attempt to comfort.

I describe place, time.

I muse on kinship, affiliations.

I embroider threads connecting us.

 

 

Now that it feels like the world is ending,

What can I do but read and think and dream?

Ponder the past.

Imagine a future.

And write letters.

 

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#161122

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