When so much depends
on this pair of hands
to bring us into bloom,
depends on this mind–
a crowded, airless room–
the day is a game of pick up sticks:
one false move of the limbs or the wits
disturbs the peace; there is no fix.
I wasn’t meant to be a turtle,
carrying my house on my back.
Instead I’ll be the twine, binding and hemming
the adhesive, puzzle-piecing
the comic relief, side-stitching.
I’ll be the sustenance,
a magnetic substance.
Not all at once,
but each in its turn.
Wear the hat the moment asks for and
hide the others, live and learn.