My life is made of tapestry,

It’s rich with burgundy and golden hues,

Burgundy for the bleeding of youthful women,

Burgundy of placental childbirth born from thorny pain and joyous cries of life,

Aged parents’ hands and arms who went before me,

Worn out from carrying, lifting, providing,

Born out in burgundy underground lakes in pools of bloody broken vessels

Under paper thin skin.

Golden tapestry woven in with sunlit days, smiles, laughter,

Many hints of green, some lime striped tongues of discussions

Concerning life and living, dreaming, growing, changing, envisioning,

Hunter greens with evergreen,  and with deep underground roots—-roots going back to other times and places of ancestors,

Rooted in strength, stability, nurture, heartbreak, sacrifice, perseverance, flexibility, regenerativity,

With lavender and yellow tongued iris, pink roses with thorns–sweetness and pain;

From sweet love, caresses, kisses, embraces,

Pain, from disappointments, weaknesses, losses,

Chartreuse columbine, and climbing royal purple clematis reaching for the sun, perennial plantings returning, returning,

Never giving up,

Showing up,

Parading on,

Programmed to re-incarnate each Spring.

In each life, and begin to whither in each Fall,

Go dormant in each Winter.

The wane and the waft of it,

The upper side and under belly,

Both equally important in the weaving.

Weaving, wearing, wariness,

Wonderfulness, Writhing,

Weeping, Woveness.

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