THE LACEMAKER

by Julia Carlson

Thin fingers tat thread

web for a silky bride.

How long ago she was young.

Agile.  Limbs like saplings.

Green.

Never thinking of this day.

Clicking needles in a wood frame

bending, to see the flowered knot

the feathered wing

the curling vein of leaf

vine rushes spindly shoots

slow wave of thread

undulating hems necks sleeves.

Limbs tangled with another’s.

Fingers, arms. His too.

She remembers

her hair floating twisted in his hands

auburn river down her back

web for a silky bride.