The Tension of the Thread
Two needles click like bone on bone,
To knit the fog into a shroud.
A pattern carved in wood and stone,
Spoken soft, but felt too loud.
The mist provides the silver ply,
The cedar gives the scent of age.
We cast our stitches at the sky,
And trap the ghost inside the gauge.
❦
One for the heart, one for the head,
Until the living meets the dead.