Perhaps it is patience,
or slow digest
that lures me to a web.
Perhaps it is stillness
and those eight black eyes
of a widow’s watch.
For nothing runs in the hourglass,
no sand, no blood –
all things are stilled.
As she waits for eons,
we have only days,
between a love and a winding,
And as each swept thread
clings to the straw,
we cannot unweave
What long before our eyes
had warmed a heartbreak –
cannot dispel the grief that binds us,
One long strand, each to another,
like silk that holds all rain
at once in a tear, or a dewdrop.
Published in “La Piccioletta Barca” — Issue 19 — May 2020 https://www.picciolettabarca.com/issues/issue-19
Sweet and Bitter Greens 