She would have silk embroidered moonlight
And wafts of finest gauze as her wings,
A labyrinth intricate as a dream that Breaks delicate as gossamer in spring;
A myriad of tendrils to reflect the light,
In each a world crafted as from a subtle web,
And flights of fancy that shimmer in the night
Dissolve the aged nightmares made barren in her bed.
But then the moment passes, by reality unspun;
The dust cloth of the housewife is a rag.
The spider’s slight of fancy is undone,
The spinsters girdle is the apron of a hag.
Each dream a thread entangled on the loom,
Soft thoughts cured of whimsy by hard work;
She will scour away distraction, grubby-clean
And spoil Ariadne’s labour, sullied in the dirt.
--Brian Condra
No comments:
Post a Comment