Running Stitch
The hand that spins the yarn has also sanded the frame, has lit the fire and boiled the morning coffee, has brought the trash to the curb for pick-up, has started the ignition of the car that sits in rusted place in the old garage.


Noon is the hour of making do: smack in the middle of need and want, those two tips that touch and break, touch and break, mimicking the hinge in the collarbone.


The earliest words learned in a new language: body parts, swear words, words with which to make a promise, words to oil a stone. Which ones cannot be taken back?


You know when someone will change your life: that split second when an edge makes itself more sharply apparent. For instance, an upturned collar in the crowd. Then, stepping into the sunlight’s bronze hoops, blinded by something you cannot quite decide— whether akin to remorse, or pleasure.


In response to Via Negativa: Topocentric.

2 Replies to “Sampler”

  1. This is – just fabulous! So literally, sensually evocative of stitches on a sampler and conjuring so much – the whole of life in a few lines.

    This work gets better and better. It enthralls me. Some days I almost don’t want to look, because it may be something so gently strong and wrenching, it will turn my day upside down.

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