Curve Stitch Year

Near the intersection of pace and chaos

a sparrow with a red-tipped wing paused to note

the patterns in the cracks

between the woulds

wherewith if there were a sudden summer gust,

might open up a hollow wherein everything's something

stands silent shining deep within,

a world of concrete magic swept beneath the shrugs

of fury-eyed decisions in the wake of 

fear-filled madness

There were times,

when,

that something was our everything,

you know.

Penniless creatures glide gently above, marking soft shaped hearts

latched to frothy strewn clouds and rainy bows,

flapping wings striking paths above darkness far below

Your boots

were always brand new,

and the sticker price was

heavy

and the prints always disappeared with the snow,

you know.

A minuscule lime green thread wraps around the tip of my finger

some unmarked obelisk

and stretches far into the yellows

to say hello,

you were here, I marked the spot.

I tied another red one from here stretched to flaming orange,

and also, there you were.

Blues,

stretched to royal purples,  you were here, you were there,

we were everywhere.

Sparrows lead the way with beaks of  arrows

while perfectly the world slides off the gentle sway of their backs, 

like the curve of your cheeks;

that softness where no matter what hardness I might know,

may it always be there.