Writing is like teaching my daughter how to braid.
There are the threads –
the colors not
even complimentary –
knotted in the brain,
and the work of
weaving,
crisscrossing
at just the right
points,
visiting this
strand, then that one, again and again,
the undoing, re-plaiting
final product
and
– oh, this –
the want of someone somewhere:
Will you wear this on your wrist?
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