Shuttling threads through your Jesse
tree,
star shafts warped between the
shadows,
you told of castles and princes slain
until your tale span out, clipped
short
as the words on your tongue.
You bequeathed those early weavings
as moonshine cobwebbed the crystal
gates
against your idle fingers. No
cobbling now;
daydreams tangle my nightly loom.
You corded a ladder down the years,
reaching the lacings mazed about our
roots.
