Oh the colors

Every so often, I stare past the whole.

I single out the particles.


And the colors.



I see pieces of my mother, and Bits of my father.

Some fit perfectly.


Others seem forced.





And the colors.






Patches of new, and smooth. Swatches of tattered, and worn.

I'm to young to be old.


To old to be young.




Those vibrant colors.



Scratches and scrapes, bruises and scars.

Left there by myself, by ex-loves.


By life.




So many colors.




Stiches, and staples, patches and repairs.

Made by my family, my friends, myself,


and my children.




My god the colors!





It's hard to describe all the colors I see,


when I look at myself,




In this stained glass mirror.