Sometimes doing is the best, but sometimes saying and not doing, spinning out a story, teasing out a possibility like flax between the fingers is the witchcraft of turning dross to gold.
What’s real, other than what we say is so? What might be, except what we– breath held– will dream?
Back across the seven generations or out into the future, the words and the breath that catches, releases behind them, are the finest work– a tapestry to run my fingers over.
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