THE SHROUD

 I am sewing the cloth of desperation
And it winds
      Like a serpent;
Swallows me whole-
I am the bird in the Willow tree.
The branches are dead
      And drooping.
The storm of complacency
Has stolen my breath,
Has beaten me down
          –chaff from wheat
The shroud strangles my womanness
I despise it.
It is like a cloud
Ever changing, 
           always out of reach
My hand closes on nothing.
The cloth winds around
      And I fall.
There is no one there to catch me.
I am broken and breathing
The blood of my wounds.
I am the bird without feathers.
I am sewing with no needle or thread
And the cloth is winding
      Around me in the wind.

10/20/01

©JoBeth Sexton 2001-2012

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