We measured moody clouds by hand widths, and when we bored ourselves of that, we played cops and robbers. We pointed fingers at each other, and then blew smoke off our fingertips. You made siren sounds. I was the bad guy. It was always me falling down dead. And Mum sat on the porch, catching the sea breeze, and darning socks. She pushed a wooden egg to the toe’s end, and looped stitches to close the hole. Mostly Dad’s socks. He was a postman, went through a pair of socks before the week ended. Mum was always pricking her finger with that needle, bleeding all over herself, and saying, “Everything I do is stitched with its color.” Back then, I had no idea what she meant by that. Still don’t. But somethings just don’t matter. Sometimes it’s enough to blow smoke off your finger.
Written for dVerse Prosery. 144 words (exactly – hoot.hoot). Include the phrase “Everything I do is stitched with its color.” – by W.S. Merwin, from “Separation”. AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney
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