Exile

Out here
In the eye of the storm
Needle-threading is
Art and survival.

By the sheltering glow
Of your fire,
I can’t even see
Needle’s eye.

We stab more than stitch
In rhyme more than rhythm
And nothing is sewn
Into one.

Sinking sun
Runs rivers of gold from my eyes,
My child born under a blanket
Of stars in a seamless sky.