Sunday, September 13, 2020


The stories spin, warp and weft through
holes in a tablet, in my memory, others’
fingers spelling ram’s-horn patterns, the
horn a reminder of the communal breath
we no longer share. Tell me a story about
a weaver, I asked the wind. “Only that a
spider dropped its thread, too heavy with
ash to sieve for flies.” This fire season, I
see hummingbirds rising like sparks, their
nests dusted with soot from those webs.

1 comment:

Jessamyn said...