Like Magpies we gather our treasures
the sharp needles, the tiny gold scissors,
Thin thread or fulsome yarns, brilliant
Yardage of gold and turquoise or antique browns
And turkey reds, patterns, new or old,
Printed or created whole in our nests of scraps
And strips of fabric, planned, plotted, placed.
Then flocking near, we chatter and chime.
Migrating artists, we countersing--
Warbling the songpraises of
"my creations, your creations, our creations".
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