A time to tell you things are well.
Birds flew south a year ago.
One returned, a blue-wing teal
wild with news of his mother's love.
Mention me to friends. Say
Wolves are dying at my door,
the winter drives them from their meat.
Say this: in my mind
I saw your spiders weaving threads
to bandage up the day. And more,
those webs were filled with words
that tumbled meaning into wind.
Snow Country Weavers