Breadcrumb #563

HIBAH SHABKHEZ

Colours, they tell me, can mix, merge and let
Their selves slide and collide and fudge
And not lose in what is what they have been.
Soit. D’accord. But then
Why does egg-yolk falling on the carpet
Turn into a sickly brown smudge
If its yellow and this blue should make green?

Through all of history,
Tapestries were made from monies of men
Heedless of green beauty.
How then should a thread dare
To see its tapestry?

One drop means nothing, but
A thousand mean a blest shower of rain.
Those are your words that shut
Out questions. Does thread care,
Mind, when you snip it free?

I must tread the fate of the thread again,
For I too wish to walk upon the lips
Of an avalanche. Be deluged and live.
Be myself the kraken, myself sunk ships.
Would I make it to green? Or egg-like give
All, and be nothing?

• • • • • •