My hands are a keeper of words that stays
green as spring. Even when autumn sits
curled beyond my reach, content to play
with spinning wheel. I gather all my wits
to seed: fire, mustard & apples. What fits
doesn't always happen as I tangle with dark comedy.
I am a weaver who stitches and flits
sad corners, cutting away the tragedy.
Underneath the labor of tiny leaves, I eye
waning hours to inhale solitude. Though I smart
from the toil and burdens, I don't cry.
We women are embroidered with an open heart.
Sun holds our faces as chalices. Don't moan
our past nor fate. We are not cast in stone.
Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Bout Rimes Revisited, hosted by Gayle Bodirose ~ We are to use the following words in the same end-rhyme pattern: stays, sits, play, wits, fits, comedy, flits, tragedy, eye, smart, cry, heart, moan, stone.
A belated tribute to International Women's Day (last March 8) ~
Thanks for the visit ~
