Refill these hands
That worked hard and bled today
To add beauty and respect
To old clothes.
Hands not smooth and not shy
That travel quick through the stitches
And join the borders of a hot Sunday.
Give them water, a shake, and a rest
In your lap
Until fresh again.
Just let it happen and distance yourself
By flying to the coming singer
And exploring for the perfect Christmas present
Whole they all waste words.
Nod and consider
W what is really important to you
And take notes
To plan your short but dense free time
And your next knitting project.
I let my words go
With direct strokes and clear edges
To transfer with the minimum black
The condensed story.
No word should leave a physical mark
On an innocent candid sheet
But on a private moment in time.
Untouchable and at limit of believing
I force my breath down
In this difficult theatrical living.
It swirls, it warms, it takes,
It gives
Attention and proportion.
Even on this tortuous mountain
In this dry day off July,
I feel you watching me
With Your magnifying lens.
Your rules are met
And my sweat will drop to the floor
At any minute.
Your lens makes you feel powerful,
Yet it burns me in my place in the sun.
Communication is a word understood
Buy all but always in a personal way.
I thrive for communicating smartly
And you lose yourself in intro and acknowledgments,
Slowly building distance and disrespect.
The air gets dense
and the faces tense in masked attention.
The difficulty of looking inside
Is unimaginable
Yet necessary and necessary of training.
My inner voice head to shout
For me to listen
And no volume switch is in sight.
My ear is gentle and too respectful
Of those voices outside
That talk loud over that whisper.
