The eye of a needle is tiny. The threader’s wire hooks a whip of floss and passes it through the door of a wool-gray sky. If I were a camel, would I have known where the fissure lay? The word heather means variegated, shaded off in parts, whimsy not cut out of the same sheen or sheet or cloth. Like how some dreams are stippled and some are plain. Like how some joys are miles and miles of gossamer, unfazed by the idea of seams. I drive past neighborhoods in the afternoons, as children are just starting to walk home from school. Brick houses like rust-colored skeins line the streets, flagstone walks edged by monkey grass. Let me not forget what I’ve always wanted, so hard its edges strain against the remnants of fabric scraps.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.