“Reflect on that, and tell me what comes to mind.”

I pause - what should I say?
My thoughts are a jumbled ball of string
and reflecting might cut it apart.

My therapist wants me to set
the sections of string
in a sequence,
and observe them from above, but
every cutting I take makes the ball
a little smaller.

Instead, I want to
take the mess
and dye it purple
and use it to fly a kite
and watch it unravel as I push it down a staircase.
I want to weave it into a delicate blanket
and fasten a portrait with it,
and use it as floss,
and make it a violin bow.

But I reckon I shouldn’t let it grow.
So I set off enough to make my therapist smile,
and I keep the rest in a messy pile
and I learn how to use it to sew.