Wood-shreds, cotton, flax, grass—
plant fibers beaten to expose
inner life, so old life will pass
into something new. Water-softened,
washed, mixed into slurry, ready to be
made and molded. And pressed.
Sheet bared to the sun, blessed
and made useful in the drying,
in the exposure to the Sun.
I have a memory; every crease remains,
intricate folds of experience
shaping origami me. He unfolds,
some parts tucked in so tightly
I tear in the unfolding. I tear
in every unfolding, but
His hand smoothes over.
Surrendered in the unfolding, I wait
and He writes.
Spirit-ink penetrates, bleeds
all the way through as nib makes
graceful strokes recording
flourishes of kindness, goodness,
grace on me.