My son asked me to make thumb holes in his shirt- oh what mother’s do for love. Turned the experience to poetry.
Ripping at seams
Taking apart the pieces that hold us together
Making the most of what we have
Wanting to sew it all back
To what was once normal
But now a normal is sitting here
With needle and thread
Staring at the material
Conjuring up a creativity left dormant
A time never visited
A thread of semblance that leaves me exhausted
A material end that is unfamiliar and so unfair. …
rustlejump 