I string these words,
like beads on a string.
I stir with a ladle,
like a broth in a stew pot.
stringing it with love,
watching it bubble. Bloom I say,
blooming I see,
the power of your string of word.
I watch it flow,
cascading like fresh water, on a cool evening sunset. I am the WEAVER,
I weave words,
stringing them like beads.
The pen is my loom
the paper my frame and the ink my wool. I spin words that heal, liberate and chastise.
