The fabric of inexplicable things
makes sewing together a life’s plan
a more difficult thing than you may think—
not being able to answer many questions
interlopers impose the way carpenters sink
nails intended to hold some structure
or other together to serve, for a time, as shelter.
Haven or hellhole, walls usually aren’t privy
to their purpose as they rise, melt or
fall into disrepair, then disappear. Isn’t it
nature’s intent when on a rip—a rampage
time sanctions; oh that tapestry eventually
will weave itself, hang on some savage
hall’s north face where light seldom reaches.
Sunless, most things die off, or better yet,
simply unweave themselves, a fragmentation
as sure to catch our imagination as fish net
unraveling even as the catches disperse
back into their own element, lake or sea,
river, continents of water stretching out
like blue bolts of wavering light, embroidery
blazing where sun stitches, in shaky hand, bright
things together. Time weaves, catches light.
Linda Lee Harper lives in Augusta, Georgia. Her published works include Toward Desire (Word Works, 1996) and Blue Flute (Adastra Press, 1999) which received Pushcart nominations. Her work has recently appeared in The Georgia Review, Nimrod, The Journal, and Rattle, among others. Her manuscript Kiss Kiss was selected as the winner in Cleveland State University Poetry Center’s Open Competition for 2007 and is forthcoming in 2008.