What Gossamer Threads Enslave Us

by Vernie Lynn DeMille

 

What gossamer threads enslave us

To the weight of breath and time.

Small and simple are the locks that bind.

 

Here the dew, here the sun

Combined to make a false gem true.

 

A faerie song on tiny lips, a baby laugh,

Nonsense notes to lure and lead,

With promise of unending joys.

 

A lovers kiss and fingertips

With touch as light as powdered wings.

 

A stray note lifted on a breeze

Carried from a distant hall

Where kings and commoners gather all.

 

The fragrance of the petals bright

That bloom in fields I’ve never trod.

 

The misting of a salt sea spray

With stories of a deeper deep

And shades of blue I’ve never seen.

 

And trees so tall I feel so small,

Too big to wrap my arms around.

 

Or bubbles, iridescence caught

Between work, the water and the air,

A tender manacle for my hands.

 

And laughter light as sunshine

That fills the yard and a weary heart.

 

All threads that break with errant breeze,

something careless as a thought, 

Borne on words of gossip, a gentle sin,

 

‘Til one by one my threads are cut, cast aside,

My moorings to this mortal dream.

 

Loose I drift away, apart,

And think nothing of myself remains

To tether me to life, love, hope.

 

But then a call, a tender touch,

Unexpected, divine, unplanned and

 

I am snared again, by a dragline of silk,

Centering me in a web of beating hearts,

A cocoon to hide that I’m dying still.

 

I breathe in, breathe out.

The wind moves the orb where I lie

 

And speak of the beauty, throw sparks at the bright,

Weaving a story by day and night,

From threads, such fine, fine threads I spin.

 

 

 

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