I tried to think of some way
to let my face become yours.
“Could I whisper in your ear
a dream I’ve had? You’re the only one
I’ve told this to.”
You tilt your head, laughing,
as if, “I know the trick you’re hatching,
but go ahead.”
I am an image you stitch with gold thread
on a tapestry, the least figure,
a playful addition.
But nothing you work on is dull.
I am part of the beauty.
Tricia Chatter 
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