Description
With these hands of mine,
I mark a small piece
of the landscape
I come from.
To stand
now
In front of you.
This is what it has taken:
No simple route.
No one direction.
No one journey.
No easy find.
Repetitive pathways.
Many dead ends.
With hindsight
it makes a fine pattern.
Red stitchmarks:
blood, love, hurt, memory, reference points, mending.
Space for two paper scrolls.
In case
words fail me
when our eyes meet.
