She finds space inside distance, an absence
holds her, rocks her, wraps her up in woman song.
Black freighters, caves, cracked teacups. Love gone wrong.
Women in love with men in love with men
in love with women wanting love to offer
profit or return. A weave of rich brocade
labeled first as Destiny then as Fate.
But if love’s a weaver, she’s a spider
warping makeshift looms with threads
so strong they tether trees to stones, bend wind,
collect the rain. Sometimes webs are broken
but she knows spider threads are body threads.
They float on wind, hold on to light and wings.
Even shredded webs become offerings.

 *     *     *     *
 
. . . This is the final poem in my manuscript Darkwood Of Error. I include it here as the first post of this soon to be rambling blog, a place for photos and brief glimpses into the dim-lit caverns of my mind.