Poem- Fallen Leaves (ekphrastic non-winning poem)

Amazing how words strung together are just that.

Not a stitch of weave or a bead in the pattern.

Nothing as permanent as ink on paper. Once it’s written, drawn, painted, sculpted or stitched, it’s as permanent as a spoken word.

It can never be removed, not from a soul. Not from a human, no matter the apologies.

Scissors, water, fire, erasers or white-out; can all delete art.

But they cannot delete the seed from which it grew.

Spoken-word, a whisper of doubt.

A slip, fall or trip in time and just as suddenly, a rip is there. Such as a misshapen or off-colour bead.

A mistake, once made, cannot be undone. It must become part of the pattern.

Billy’s talent brought me to this point. Shifted my pattern, adjusted the weave.

Fourteen years. Nine years. No years. One day. Another twenty-four.

On this seat. Made of my heartbeat and affliction.

Under this sun. Made by another or just a coincidence.

Colour. Brown.

Shade. I prefer sun.

Difference?

No. Same.

Same? No shame.