My poems seem to have been
torn
apart
the edges frayed
the phrases broken
unable to be put
back
together
again

It’s a quiet night in the sticks,
So hot and humid, shirts are drenched
And every movement leads to pure
heat exhaustion, sweat trickles down
foreheads and the fans just
Don’t cool when the air is filled
With heavy moisture and good ole’
Southern Sweet Tea can only do
So much to save your poor soul
And bless your heart and say your
Prayers and be sure to never swear
Dogs are barking louder than ever
As they chase a leaving pickup down
A dirt road named “Desire.”

Poetry is the string
         looping through and
         weaving out
the needling pain

It knits a beautiful
         patchwork, coated with
         colorful patterns
our fingers trace

threads of our lives
         create designs
a shining::
shimmering::
or dulling
our emotions blend.