threads: a poem

A strand of hair, silvered, taut
A bow string, harp string, gut singing
A spider’s net, a worm’s cocoon
looping white over the branch

A branch catching the loose strands
from the braid with a wincing pull —
or the leggy seamstress’ work
ragged as a bird blunders through

and the fly escapes. The silk worm
robbed of its warm coat to make ours.
The bowstring wears, the harp string snaps
from the pressure of the song.

And us, then. Your hair gone gray
under my telling fingers —
slender, fragile, strong as iron —
but only if we are lucky


About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s