We Make Things

©Orly Avineri

Most are silly, yet, somehow we need them, we justify

We scribble intuitive graphs, draw winding lines, our blind contours, our curves

We paint our lush brush strokes, control beginnings, let the continuations be

We fuss with ephemera, to practice change, to face what is bound to end

We plant papers in pots, to give them a chance to grow without our meddling

We bury them in the ground farther away from us, to come see them later

We set them in our gardens, to soak in the wet soil, and then dry in the sun

To be blown away or slightly moved by an occasional wind

We then invite them back into our spaces, some come back

Sometimes we burn the edges of things, to poke holes, to make less whole

To adorn our tables, those that hold multiple layers of memory, lies, and story

We make things through which to touch what was previously made by others

And those things picked up while hiking, like dried plants, and fallen nests

To join in the making of such things, memorable and utterly forgettable, alike

To create some things out of complete nothing, or from some existence

We do all this in books, blank or not, or make the books.

We do it on old book covers, on canvases, and wooden panels

We do it all one day at a time or in a day coming out of nowhere

We do it all to feel our senses, sensuality, and to make sense of things

To see our mothers’ hands in ours, in constant motion, never dying

To love these hands, and through this love, to love the rest of our bodies

We do it to cozy up to our heartbeats, fading, or insisting, to other heartbeats

To become more attentive, more expressive, to be bolder, and more animated

To connect and reconnect, to see other humans’ humanity, to feel the breaths

Of our mothers and our fathers, our sons, our daughters, and all the strangers

Those who suffer, those who invite, who urge, who challenge, who reject us

We do it to understand the women and the men who stay, leave, or return

We do it to learn how we love, why we cry so much and laugh too little

To make it easier on ourselves to meet humans we’ve never fully known

To find much needed tranquility, to feel our ever growing zest for living

More freely, truthfully, passionately, to find out what truly dwells in our hearts

To build temporary homes in which to live in comfortably, at times witnessed

To make sense of what stubbornly lingers in our bones, in our cells, our minds

To familiarize our hearts with our deep longings, relive and revive the dreams

To remember that we do belong with others as they belong with us

We make things to find what inspires us, to find our lovers

And whether we do or not we find ourselves more loving

All explained to ourselves and clarified to others

And when we make things

We find ourselves light as feathers

Almost flying, almost floating

Gently moving forth

No longer anxiously.

©Orly Avineri

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Orly