Stuck on washed up remnants
of proud moments
we used to own,
(like our body heat clinging to a room)
we still feel them.
We want to reach out and touch with familiar fingers
the braids we braided
and un braided.
Meticulously. We worked on them, making something new.
How impassioned, the first time. How bold.
But we shy from the foreignness of newly woven patterns,
of a new ripple in the day--
something that might choke, burn, sting.
We could hurt-fail
and so,
we do nothing.
