You gather me–
all my errant parts,
my straying strands
and false selves.
You pull me together
with a thread,
seemingly invisible.
I step back
and take a good hard look
at the subtle, strong, hanging on
that binds my heart together.
It’s good work, from sure hands,
even and straight stitches
that have not faltered
or missed a fold.
tabeasley
I don’t know how He does it either.
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