Thread

A blind moiré weaves my soul’s thread
with ancient gnarly fingers
deaf and slow
And in her grip deliberate as midwife’s hand
I tremble head to toe
and hardly dare take a breath

Over the world a caravan of golden fleece
indifferently proceeds to the unknown point
The somber skies anticipating
decline and fall
of the celestial light
seep cold from the waters deep below
and noisy branches
frothing blossoms dream
is leaving
slipping
stops
the hand,
and thread
is on the brink of rupture
22 февраля, 2008