Poem: Mending



There is mending to do.
Things to fix.
Broken things.
Torn things.
Things that leak.
Things that almost work.

Something of a lost art.
Easier to toss
and begin again
than taking the trouble
of repair,
and the possibility that the mended things
lose their perfection,

the magic that happens
when a thing is saved,
imperfections and all,
each mended part a testimony
to its value.

About this poem. 

About stuff. About people. Especially about people.


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