A masterful weave of wrong and right Are we hollow, are we tight? Like baskets bent to hold the load Seats of chairs, in fibers sewed Under weight we bow our spine Do we bend, or do we splinter in time? Flexible or torn apart Wood remembers every mark Every hand that pressed too hard Every silence left to scar We are wickerwork, entwined Pulled and shaped by hands unkind Carrying more than we can take Still we learn how not to break If we loosen every tie Who are we when we decide? A creaking branch, twisted, bruised A willow’s grace, bent, reused Uprooted, still it finds a way Through broken ground, through disarray Not all wounds are meant to close Some just teach us how we grow Rough hands mold what they can own Press us down, but not alone These burdens weren’t all our choice Still we search for our own voice We are wickerwork, entwined Pulled and shaped by hands unkind Carrying more than we can take Still we learn how not to break If we loosen every tie Who are we when we decide? When we carry nothing more When we’re not what we were for Free to open, free to be More than form or utility Not escaped, but redefined Interwoven, not confined We are wickerwork, alive Not just built for weight and time In each other we remain Not as cages, not as chains Knowing, feeling, standing clear Love runs through us, fiber-deep and sincere Authentic, raw, and real Open enough again to feel.
