Textling #18

Insomnia just about fells me. Nightly I swallow hope in green and blue, to no avail.

So much to say goodbye to. I grope about for prospect, possibility, mourn formerly able hands. The tiniest gesture could elevate a tired day: I’d thread a strand of hair through a needle’s eye, ready for something; cut a dress from an autumn leaf, its curly stalk making it dance; chart ideas on post-it notes, for better times. My crochet hook spelled c-a-r-p-e  d-i-e-m. Bit by bit I drew myself up, nature to nurture to culture.

I’ve never felt more embodied, never less. As capacity and vision wane, I find through writing the last unlittered chamber in the house M.E. built, where illness hollers curses through the door, but cannot enter, overwhelm. Here desire reigns, and I heave myself up again, wring silvery notes from silence, throw swansongs to the wind. Oh, did I mention: pathos is alive and well!


9 thoughts on “Textling #18

  1. C’est beau, what can I say. I hear you, as Sonia wrote. And, your words transport me….
    Yes, the crochet hook wrote, wove sentences, framed a text. Your silvery notes are equally enchanting.
    Keep writing, keep, keep writing…

    Liked by 3 people

  2. I must say that piece is breathtakingly accomplished and moving. Fantastic last line! Love it. Amazing M x thank you for these pieces you are posting. They are gifts 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

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