Willow boned and hollow breasted,
I wander into the winter light
drifting on careful wings
lifted by uncertain urges
to sky and cloud.
How often will these days drift
bearing little artifice of reality
and none of the grace requested.
How still the breath when flying.
How still the heart when praying.
Is this the apocryphal tale
of water into wine
or the great flood
in which our souls will wash away
down the mighty stream
of some great river
washed to the shore with copper pennies
to pay the ferryman’s toll.
How still the breath when praying.
How still the heart when dying.
She waits, willow boned and heart still beating,
wandering into morning light
from the deep nights dreams.
The sound of wings urge her flight
to clouds and heavens door,
bearing little of her waking reality
and all of the grace requested.
With each silken thread,
she pulls through and over
each tiny knot
tied just so.
woven and plaited,
needles to make
the perfect point.
She spins a yarn
entangling and intertwining her tales,
each with rich color
and resplendent texture
until the final