The Home Sampler

Facing the fine line
threaded through our lives,
he stitched back and forth,
across, then back
embroidering moments and mysteries,
darning tales and tantrums.

He would change threads
mid seam going from calm greens
to violent purples,
from despondent grays to hyper yellows--
sometimes so quickly,
the colors blurred to black.

Often I wouldn't know who
was sewing until I'd been basted
and then it was too late.
I tried to keep the green threads separate
but somehow the needle flew-tangling
and knotting until I fell apart at the seams.