At night she would wander,
creating a small road
herself among the stones,
a small black spot carefully engrafted
Graceful in her movement
sniffing fresh wild flowers and clods of clay
hair grazing her neck
in a burnt orange haze of golden waves
Now her eyes are silver
as if she were looking at me
from the other side of a mirror
listening quietly to old stories.
Random expressions of foolishness
fall apart; she goes back to old ways,
circling through time
earthed in tradition and roots.
This is a patchwork poem based on lines written by the following poets, who kindly gave me permission to play with their poems:
Our Muse, by Lissa at Just Writing Words.
About a man and a dog, by Christine at Mariacristina
Pit of your spit, by gautami tripathy at Rooted.
Sinking Ships by writerwoman at Shores of My Dreams
Beloved mother, by jillypoet
I’ve again used complete lines, though I made one tense change and changed a few pronouns to “her”.
To see what other poems have made with the same material, or to find out more about patchwork poems, visit the patchwork poetry blog.