There’s a pile in my closet:
a skirt too small,
a shirt too stained,
pants too worn.
They wait, expectantly, for a transformation,
for deft scissors and clever thread,
a re-imagination of grace.
But I hang in the moment between
the death of the old and the birth of the new,
hesitating between despair and fear.
seed becomes flower,
not by a tenacious clinging to what was,
but by a reckless hope in what is to come.
words to shrink from, yet without them
the present stalls, withers and fades.
For us, reclamation is not inevitable.
Our willingness is required:
to take scissors in hand,
(deep breath, now)
and begin in hope.