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.