The sounds of fabric

I hang somewhere between my parents and my children,
Snapping in the winds, palms burning as I cling to a weathered line.


The generation before me unravels just a bit with each gust.
The generation after me whooshes,
Crisp taffeta, precariously tacked.

I never took time for the backstitch.
How was I to stitch the seams of their character?
I hang by a thread.

Yet off they spring, releasing the line.
The rustling fibers of their beauty stroke my soul,
Wash me with innominate emotion as they bravely billow up and away.

I still hang somewhere between.
Clinging. Damp. Sagging sadly before those who formed me.
I question my strength to ease their decline.
Will the determination of my whip and slip stitches be enough?

I loosen my grip, and allow the draughts to slide me up and down the line.
Rippling through memories and hopes.
Flapping flatly past regrets and dreads.

A gust and I snap back.
The upside down arms of cotton distend
upwards to embrace the energy of those rising,
forward to hold the strength of those unraveling.

I swell somewhere between.
The ethereal threads that bind us.
The lightness of love that lifts us.

9 February 2017

© Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2017