The Unfinished
The future weaves itself
My soul spins the yarn
Out and in, out and in
I know nothing of this
Fantasy in soft, flesh and spirit
I am content
Daring without courage
To be happy with my story
It’s my story, after all
I’m the quilter
Or should I say
The quilter resides in me
And he is quiet
Shocked into silence and stillness
Perhaps he will die
Now that his fabric is gone
And the quilt lays
Splayed and rough and undone
And now it’s me
Looking around
At the unfinished
Becoming aware, terribly
Of my expectation.
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