I am making a book.
The pages are thick white paper,
sturdy, with a tooth.
Each one is painted and hand sewn,
Layered with pigment and fiber.
Each one tells the story of a failure or a wound,
A dead-end where I spent too much time,
A wrong choice that led to a wrong place,
An aching desire, unfulfilled,
My mistakes, misjudgments, and scars.
In the vision I work on these pages with love,
The way a midwife meets life and death
with a steady hand,
Then carefully bind them together.
I place the book on the altar.
I hand it to over to God.