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

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