Seams

I stitched these seams with novice fingers
That shaky beginner’s hand that sewed awry
With the dream of a cloak for my inner heroine

I stitched these seams with the breath of childhood
That knew freedom and sun-kissed trees in wild acres
Where the thistle-flowers grow

I stitched these seams with the smear of coffee-dark dirt
That grew saplings in the quiet places where
I grass-stained my knees

I stitched these seams with immortality
That soon became mortal as the full moons waned
And the chapter of growing up unfolded its rule stained page

I will not stitch the broken seams closed again
For contrary to common belief
They aren’t and never will be scars

These torn seams are threads of precious nostalgia
For a time and kingdom long past.