October Second

14 6 2

by KingfisherBirdLady

by KingfisherBirdLady

October second, 2020 --
hydrangea creeps along imperfect paint,
green ruffles overtaken by rust.

White knuckles -- how dare they?

This world of fog, I suppose,
is far preferable to fire. After all,
I can see the webs of the spiders now,
and their abandoned ideals
of home. Loose threads hang
from curtain to carpet --
I gather them in my hands,
wool waiting to be spun.

They need something to do,
these hands. For too long
they lay idle.
I want to work
again.

Oh, merciful god.
Misty morning, scarlet maples.
There is nothing to yearn for
anymore. No longer must
the atheist pray, no
longer must she cry.

But wait -- is it -- ?
Is it just a trick of the eye?

Has the fog begun to lift, to
leave this place? To make way
for the virgin autumn sun, to
make way for golden pathways.

Dear mist, please come back tomorrow --
Saturday, the third day of October.
I must see these fragile threads again.