Monday, October 31, 2016

Arm music viii: not a mask, a gauze

  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
op. cit.

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