Mother of Invention

Two-thousand and twenty

The year of hindsight

Of painful truth

Of pandemic

Of racism, revealed;

I find myself at a crossroads

But all directions are cloudy with fog

And it’s growing dark again

And so I stand still

Waiting for a sign

For a new path to show itself.

My chest aches

With held breath

As I busy myself with

The mundane

Like making dainty earrings

Out of someone else’s buttons

Like creating anew

From old

Like rescuing cast-off treasures

From thrift store shelves

Taking their photos

In bright daylight

To accentuate their perfect imperfections

And find them new homes

Where they might catch the right light

For another lifetime

And with more important things

Like mothering (trying to avoid smothering)

Like loving (and being loved)

Like trying to cling to sanity

In two-thousand and twenty

The year the world exploded

Into countless broken pieces

And countless opportunity

To put it back together


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