I wrap three stones in red


Today the sun stretches
instead of rising
sends dull metal clouds
to look for corners
at the hard edge

I don’t want to stand in the quiet line
cut the red cloth
whisper ink
to words

Fingers grip bone and spoiled
muscle aches

The needle disappears
into the eye

I spin wool
into a honey cap
warm and sweet as blankets
before rising
I stitch ties to the cast-off square
to make an apron bib

I leave the red-dressed stones
with offerings
pocket filled with the script
of every wish

Come to grief

Return tides to the ocean
river to the stones

It’s not even a shadow
the moon holds