Thread

A spool of thread,
or so it's said,
can cross the widest ocean.
But could that string
come back again
if it took the notion?

that You were from nothing
holding silence
like a babe
in your eternal arms
in unmade heaven
the crash cloud stars
seem patiently waiting
watching spinning burning
breaking calm at last

you wait for the extroardinary to happen
the sides of eyes to show you light
reflected back from god's face
and each twisting falling star
brings you back to lingering
as elsewhere Northern Lights run along
that particular nerve of heaven

Glistening gray mirror harbour
sun bobbing on its mooring
dirty yellow like rivercat boats
in wan summer

Scant little squirrels
we've found memories to be
listening, looking, storing
still hungry in winter

Gone

It's supposed to open you up,
give you hope,
sharpen your senses.
But instead it just clutters
your already little world
with sharp glass bits
that sparkle and cut,
wounding joys that slice
deep as you smile and sigh
(you'll feel it later)
and mercenary giddiness,
sweeps you sideways
under the current
and before you realize
you can't breathe
you're gone.