Shades of red and blue in my peripheral, the pedal at my feet, I sew like I write: no plot, no plan. Loose threads at every corner. Straight stitch, back stitch, zigzag for the seam. In the late-night hour, I note the mistakes. That section too wide, the other too slant. With a heavy sigh, I undo a whole line, and the floor is littered with wasted string. I brush the scraps aside, so I can rearrange now. Reconsider. Until finally, with distance and a squint of the eye, the pieces become tiny continents of material easily pushed into form, the narrative always present, patchwork to full.
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