Dust to be collected
Banded together
Strings of things
Threaded from oils and cellulose
Bound in this world
By going over and under
Knotting and pushing through
The more even the better
At least up close
The pattern is the thing
Deciding what should last
What should be passed
Some becoming scrap
Others but pot holders nearing the end
Rags at a greasy garage
Broken; ripped apart
Separated
Yet
In the golden dawn
Where all is forgotten
Or at the very least
Forgiven
Things are mended
Reusable
Extendable
Shared
Even passed down
And thus
On a platform
Where all other things are gathered
Today
There are colorful additions
Some seen for the first time
Others tracked for generations
Fought for over a table rife with documents
Attorneys present
Some bloodied
Some inseminated
Some identifiable
Distinguished
Distinguishable
Marked
Imperfected
Entering the doors
There are smells
All of which
Have been applied
Except the secreted
Which hangs on those fibers
For as long as possible
Never asking forgiveness
Only boldly showing
Good judgement
Or a great misstep
But boldly
Hanging on
Sometimes by a thread
The newborn baby lamb
The cracked cocoon of silkworm
The liquid esters being churned
Not knowing the pride
The tradition
We carry forth
After their traditions have done their duties
Mint
Starched
Pleated
Real beauties
--
1/27/09
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