Saturday, November 21, 2015

of nearly twilight

putting down the colored pencil
she took up the
cotton sock to darn a thousand years ago .... thread
falling between fingers alight
eager crisp persimmon possibility poured out of her folded
enfolded borrowed and stolen
she became the one holding the sock
the one holding the red thread
tendering the hole
counting the minutes until his return
forgetting the colored pencil
forgetting the open trees open sky smells of pine promise
pick up the saffron salmon pink
color this twilight
and
wait no more


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