I stitched a coat
of many colors,

at first a soup
of blugreenyelloredorange;

then my soft fingers began to
define
yellow of buttercup,
green of sapling,
red of mushroom,
blue of robins-egg,



but soon

the needle pierced sharper
and the stitches tightened
around

black glass of ocean

and shards of moonlight;

life hummming beneath burnt sienna bark;

shadows playing in wine-colored twilight;

golden creases in the face;
all held together by pinpricks of memory;




but soon
the thread broke
and all slipped loose,
despite the grasp of
my scarred hands—

my coat of many colors
strewn in the wind.