This Cocoon With Room

Spun of threads of heedful need and mourning
pulled, twisted, and tightly woven
over hills and holes once burning
healed or healing
this old and new self a-stirring

Now not who she was, but who she is;
no longer just lifting veil, 
but touching bone
Waiting in some gut-mustered patient tone 
Perceiving some heavy emptiness
at some objectionable or mysterious
not-near-ness,
a distracting 
something-other-ness
remained

silently and thoroughly 
winding threads around it
a curious tilting head imagined you
and it was giving in and going on…
by sticking to the path 
your eyes and words laid out
but causing me to shyly pout
for I lingered stoutly longer 
on kisses you may or may not have pondered

Wondering of your plaid history; 
your holding, your loving, your scolding
what fuel or filter moves you along
what weave is woven into song

This and me? 
I find it’s snug but stretchy 
even for a plan 
that is more than a little bit 
sketchy

While learning to point to it, 
nurture it, protect it, and gather it toward…
and grinding up nuts of another's experiences
spread thickly between bricks 
of unknown burden
I hoped I was helping  
as I was hiding 
a little too much or too soon
in and out of my lacy 
and loosely held cocoon

a cocoon, by the way,
in time
with plenty of you-shaped room