Cross Stitch
Updated: Mar 20, 2022
There is a buoyant thread
in my memory of curiously
woven moments. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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A smiling morning.
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At least two occasions
in the still of night.
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And, In my treehouse,
pretending to enjoy
for what I thought was nobody,
the blackberry "jam" I made
out of under-ripe berries
that reached keenly for
my treehouse window.
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Then there was the time
on a frothy Seashelt shore
during a school camping trip,
when I stole away
from the antics of dumb boys.
Their idiotic raucus drifted
over the beach, as I waltzed
with the salt water, it leading.
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Then, as a young scientist in
my parents' dusty garage
concocting with plastic
cups and rain.
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At each stitch in time
there was something
too good
to be dismissed
as chemistry.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀
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Someone.
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I recognized you
near me, when I sang praises
of your glory into the thunder
of white caps.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I recognized you
walking with me
at twilight. ⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I was made to. ⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
You knit me
with you
in these stitches that
hold me together,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
mending everything⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
in advance.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
All along,
the thread
was you.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. John 10:27