Stitching it Together

Today I gather the morning light

as it angles gold across the lawn.

I gather the scent of fennel fronds

in the garden and the surprising sweetness

of the one-bite strawberries

and the softness of the shawl

I thought was lost, but today I found.

I gather the weight of my daughter

as she leans into me on the couch

and the smooth burn of rye whiskey

and the purr of the cat as she naps

deeper into my lap, and I stitch

them together with the thread

of my attention.

Long ago, I learned what I focus on

creates me. Not that I ignore the bindweed,

the news, the drought, the young raccoon

dead beside the road. I do not turn away

from the stories that make me weep.

I am willing to be ferocious—

to stand up for what I know is true.

But I study what is beautiful,

what is generous. I offer it my devotion.

Even in this moment writing this poem,

I stitch in the pauses and the stumblings—

these, too, are beautiful because they are true.

I stitch in the pure potential that steeps

in uncertainty. I stitch in silence. I stitch in hope.

--Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer