A hot summer day,
Once again I read someone
Else’s mail. Sipping
Lemonade as I crochet
Edges of reality.
The leaves fall. As I
Count the dry bones, I breathe forth
The silence of death
Woven from mountains and skies
Which hem in the Beloved.
My breath twines with snow
Yet to come. They rebuke me
For seeing the dark,
But what choice was I given?
The winter is my needle.
Spring’s my thread of green.
New like the shards of broken
Mirrors. Pieces placed
Like manifold wisdom, glimpse
Reality’s tapestry
I am not the year
Nor a season, month or day.
I am but minutes
Who count the threads leading
To the finished work, God’s hand.
