No, not He who spoke softly to my ear,
His silence cast and branded from a mold to sear.
Then, the sweeping and coming of a bird gathering cloud and dust
upon Her black feather’s rust.
.
No more, no less. Pure.
Falling in, He rises for the rolling of a bird’s familiar tune.
Adjacent, He beckons past the gentle sweeping of a Fate’s doom.
He stood steeped to the filling line of a vessel true
then rose slowly for the apricot moon.
No more, no less. Pure.
The Thread Is Red 