Raconteur
Parker Dodson
Thread, weaving
Telling us these stories with color
Soft white for the birds,
Blue for the sea and sky,
Sequins for events - rebirth, death, teleportation
Needle flashing, glinting eyes
In and out, the jumping and throbbing of the timeline
You write the prologue to these stories
Sewing myths an hour at a time
And forming the chapters of some obscure tale.
I cannot see thread without seeing you
Morning and afternoon hunched over the table
Tending to the fabric that begs for some color.
It blooms for you, obeys you
Flourishing and unfurling in those arthritic hands of yours
That tend to your garden of stories ever so
Tenderly.
I comfort myself, bring ease to myself
By entertaining the idea that even when you depart
Your thread will remain, forming the arteries and knots to
Your spirit.
I will not be able to touch you, but I’ll be able to run my soft fingers across your works
And feel you reverberating throughout
And even when those colors fade
The blues, the whites, the purples
The story will always remain.
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