the bones lay about like bits of thread. what is left on a spool, no small task, too little to bother with, end fragment of a much longer story. spent. short. unused after so much that may have been wasted. last remaining wisp that was spared from many weaves.
at the turn of a spindle, gazing at a tapestry full of sad eyes. perhaps it is cold and everyone is wearing furs. the hearth fire roars. yesterday's ashes are gathered in a pan.
as i watch my son's long lashes long last flutter shut for the day, my own eyes dampen with the lost feeling of something slipped away.
as i watch my daughter carefully step the tight rope of these years with grace and wisdom, i long to know more of her hidden feelings.
our eyes, our feet. we seek to see what they see, we carry them and chase them and follow them. they help us to view things fresh. we step into uncharted territory. from top to bottom, we witness, we dance. we catch our self in reflection and stop short.