Picking up Strands of My Old Life

Picking up strands of my old life and weaving them in

One is heavy and broken

One is slithery and thin

One is jagged and hurting

That one stops me and I walk away for awhile.

They don’t fit together the same way

And in the process they change.

The broken one forms two strands changing colors weaving together

The painful one loses its barbs but is wiry and doesn’t want to adapt

The thin one grows thicker and joins with the shorter news ones just beginning to bud.

They begin new conversations I haven’t heard before

Combine new voices and make a different song.

Singing is beautiful and discordant all at the same time

I had forgotten about the shy blue strand; it finds friends with the caring gold one.

I didn’t weave it; it wove itself. It found its own way, introducing itself.

A burgundy one enters. That one is even older; it was hidden behind the blue one waiting for its turn.

That one found a seat with the wool strand and reminded me of confidence

They chatter and move and turn into something new

It seems like it is a good thing but then some start to argue.

One is smelly, fraying and needy and the others repulse

They do not all fit together well; some pull and some curl, and some snarl

For some time there is chaos. a red strand wants to leave and go back

But there is no home to go back to.

The oldest way and the older way are changed

and many of the strands already left as the picture of what was fades

And even older plaid strand arrives now and it feels like courage

It all forms into new shape and recreates what I thought was the old.

What seemed yellow was actually orange and everything seems new but old.

—–Melinda Ruby——-

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