She wears a scarf that snags whispers of lovers,

Sometimes a phrase, often one word,

Sounds and sighs woven into the weft.

She sits in the moonlight,

Unravels the mysteries,

Rolls them into diaphanous orbs

Embroidered with poetry, tied off with a tear.

Birds descend on them

At the first signof morning

But only she is aware

She feeds birds their song.

Copyright 2018