The day drags,
trailing loose ends and torn edges,
Her bags carry things she will never use,
things she had planned to turn into magical objects.
A morning gone awry,
turns into an afternoon that drags
and the evening is growing old before it is young.
Trying to stitch two of the pieces back together,
she wrestles unaccommodating fabric,
cotton that has split
and a needle with a blind eye.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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