Her cottage washed bluish grey
in the remnants of the ancient day,
and stars dashed, clashed against
the leftover luster of sky
across the expanse of mighty winds
while a cry, from inside,
echoed out among
the seeds of dark and light.—
The clamour against the
onslaught of night
drew out her last audible sigh.
If she’s careful before the shadow comes,
she can catch the scent of recognition in the dark—
in the myth of remaining uninhabited.
She’s lurking outside the
clockworkings of Life.
She finds it easier when she lets out
the last bit of breath
to knit the fates together
before she forgets
what the half-light before dark
ignites the fabric of fate.
Ephemerae she knits with inherent debris,
in the wings of wind,
in the pinions of a passerine or
bird of prey, perhaps.
To harness the desire for flight
and pin it inside the inability to fly
takes the deepest concentration.
But it is the most intrinsic part
of knitting the fates to life.
So she takes the greatest care
in the few moments between light
and evening, when song
is barely heard and whispers crescendo
to a greater height than sound.
She is wild with wonder now,
always with the whip of her fingers
and her burnished hair brazen in the
flecks of sky tipping through
the casement, she is amazed at what
her fingers fashion.—
Fabric derived from the
interpretation of flight and sorrow.
From hope and the transient state of
fire, wheat, and water
in ambition of balance or its kilter.
The shadow is coming soon though.
She works quickly, the moments
taking on the indistinguishable shapes
of fate now.
Indistinct to the naked eye.
She’s almost finished by the time
the shadow coils in between her fingers
and dislodges the new-spun material
from her needles.
Then he’s gone.
And in the dark,
vacant and out of kilter,
she breathes in the
nothingness left over
from the work of her hands
as it germinates into the
empty spaces of the cottage
and lacerates the onset of night.
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