a stitch

I could weave yarn
from inside the coves of my hand

and maybe they would be an ocean,
if the yarn was blue enough.

I could listen harder
and hear something softer
and feel okay
that maybe I am somewhere
else, entirely.

I lift bark to my ear
and hear nothing.

Or something quiet
and now unrecognizable.

Rows of houses catching on fire.
Lakes as still as pavement.

Rain sounds the same so if I just
listen, I could be anywhere.

Quiet. Patient.
Believe in
the great white pine.



(something better said by WS Merwin (seperation))
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.