My Patches

Oh, places. If I were from a place,
I’d be across the table from you,
Sipping a steaming little glass
Of sweet mint Moroccan tea.
And I’d be laughing, hear me now?
And probably telling you some stilly story
About what happened to me on the weekend,
Or how I met the Queen of England
In my dream last night.

Oh, places. I do attach myself,
Stitch myself in with shining heart-thread.
Although, perhaps it is more that
I stitch the places into me.
Because when I leave them,
They come along with me.

The BC mountains. They’re there.
Proud and strong, rising above
My favorite place—the ocean.
And if you look,
You’ll find the rolling Ontario fields,
A flat Moroccan rooftop,
The night sky
And lots and lots of clouds.
I’ve always been a float-away kind of girl.

And there is a fading patch
From every place I’ve visited,
Stitch, stitch—A château in France,
Stitch, stitch, Croatia, London,
Stitch, my new patch: Italy.
Stitch, stitch, return.

My patches are not badges of honor,
Not marks of status,
So you aught not look at them too long.
They are simply little parts of me,
Like stories, only the stitches go deeper than that.

The End

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