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Forming in my hands
This new life

Who is growing out of who
and whom is melting into whom

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incased in whicker,

i can smell the thick cedar

i sit and i am with you, always with you,

those days,

gooseberries as far as the eye can see

my belly full,

i watch the hot rain that falls on eager thirsty ground,

yellow birds call,

and I skirt just out of sight,

to play in the chicken coup,

these moments i grab by the threads,

as they elude me, more concerned to disappear and  dance in the sun. these threads make the tapestry of my womanhood,

they make the reeds in that fashion this chair,

and suddenly every room is the Springs,mama,

every step is the verandas that you dozed to sound of child’s play,

1960s Whicker peacock chair
artefact of Tiya

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My constant companion, my friend

I will speak through you

emotions at my fingertips

vessel for the voices within

contradicting thoughts converge

My purging, My catharsis

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Pages

i filp through the pages
taking and adding,
admiring the names that i see
within this vessel that holds onto my pursuits

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My fingers hurt from sewing the little beads into this piece of cloth,

Sometimes I question whether it was worth the time given?

But can I tell you a secret, mother?

I’m grateful for all the time, and care that I have given into this brooch.

I’m grateful for all the frustrations that this brooch has given me along the way.

For all I know is that the brooch of my frustrations and affection is an artefact of my peace within myself.

Peace within us.