the color of sunrise.
She pulls over and through vertical
Threads- packed hard down with the
Shuttle leaving tight neat knots.
This is how she always spends her days
She thinks of her husband gone twenty years
Their infant son now a man. How bitterly
Those hours spent arranged in colored weave
that shows no time, like the shore
licked nightly clean by tide. She craves
Odysseus to float to her front door
heralded by seagull cries- a piece of driftwood
dropped, joyously, at her feet.
A freshness in the air and she recalls last night's
buffet of rain that crushed out suitors' revels-
left olive leaves strewn over hard packed ground.
All summer gone in those leaves
all sundrench all dew. Gaia giving
what took eternity to grow.
Her days weave nights and nights unravel days
The tight weft of hours built up and loosed
Ceaselessly storing moments like coins.
Dawn's rosy finger streak the dark
Light has streaked her hair
By the rythm of some loom.