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.