We found a book in the libary, and at the first page that opened we red “My mother would sit out in the sun and repair a tapestry or a petit point. She really loved it. This sense of reparation is very deep within me.
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It closes behind me, yet the hum of sound still penetrates the walls of the Sun, though it quickly fades as I slowly move away. I have spent a turbulent time in parallel. In poesis, sympoesis, together-poetry. In (non)sense-making, sensing, sensuality and sensitivity. And I treasure the memories. Of the…
… and what sprouts in my death?