Monday, January 6, 2014

(Sonnet interruptus)

What sort of person,
you might ask,
crochets a rock
and leaves it on a bench
beside an entrance to a park?

And look how long
it must have been sitting there,
to be so dirty,
some strings worn through,
and still so very present.

I want to be that person --
generous to a fault,
releasing art into the world
with no thought where it falls.

I also want to be that rock --
solid, bringing beauty,
even if a little worn --
a sign that somewhere, Someone cared enough
to take the time to make me,
and in that making,
cared about you, too.

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