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.