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  • Writer's pictureTaryn D

Cross Stitch

Updated: Mar 20, 2022

There is a buoyant thread

in my memory of curiously

woven moments. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀


A smiling morning.


At least two occasions

in the still of night.


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.


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.


Then, as a young scientist in

my parents' dusty garage

concocting with plastic

cups and rain.


At each stitch in time

there was something

too good

to be dismissed

as chemistry.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀




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.



My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. John 10:27


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