Hands become motion
as fingers are cogs
within an intricate
warm blooded machine.
Mind is a twine ball
soothed by process
and comforting repetition.
A swath is created
like a combed field
of gartered rows.
Eyes become averted
to yarns flow
and diminishing skein.
Sweeping palms caress
the purled shawl
that falls to the knees.
Hesitation, separation,
sip of milky tea gone cold.
Furrowed brows become
knit with horror
as they critique
a long ago
d
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p
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i
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c
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3 comments:
beautifully done
love the artwork too
My love, I do believe you are becoming a first class poet!
if I write about something I have experienced its as fun and challenging to write a peom as it is to do my art... of course this piece went through some "sound changes"; Poetry becomes the art of "verbal vision".
Of course I am as flawed as that dropped stitch! & I know all about them!
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