Upon waking she always keeps
her memory-laden eyes shut for
a few minutes
pressing dreams between lids —

like flowers.
What is fallen must never rot
she says but turned into art
and hung up on walls.
Slowly
she points to her forehead
that was once smooth and
her body that is visibly
accumulating layers and layers
of unclaimed love —
even as she softly speaks.

~

Disappointments, loss, longing, are woven into the fabric of life. Little imperfections that make it interesting and meaningful. Like spirit lines in Navajo rugs, irregularities in Phulkari embroideries or the Japanese wabi sabi.

So let us embrace life’s flaws and turn them into art. Weave poetry out of pain. Pick up forgotten dreams and gilt their edges with gold. Because what is fallen must never rot. Never.