somehow my hands always return to seed stitch, and to colour—although if you were to ask me in a day or so, whether i prefer riotous flocks of colour escaping across the fabric, to the quiet hum of black on white, i would probably smile that half-smile of mine; the one that lives on my face when i realise i hate choosing between two absolutes that both feed me in different ways.
this is clearly not a poem.
i would much rather just say that my fault lines are covered in words that smell like the sweetpeas that flowered along the fence in my granny’s garden.
i would much rather tell you that my pockets, although threadbare and well-used, are filled with fresh bread.
i am constantly given small seeds to plant inside my mouth, my hands following my gaze.
there is a lesson in this.
it took me an age of ages to learn
i have scars the size of fault lines.
if it fits, you may take it for yourself; tuck it away for a day when your life looms large before you—remember how small seeds are, how easily your hands might shape something because your eyes were hungry, how bread is much better fresh, much like grace.
remember that grace is not just for others.
your mouth should give it to yourself first.

this too, is love.

© Liezel Graham 2023

{📷 this beauty, finally finished}