Counting Cross-Stitch
January 4, 2008
Counting Cross-Stitch
She shares the morning with winter birds
feeding beyond the window.
Red, white and tufted they dart
from sap-cured trees to a birdhouse
overflowing black oilers onto the snow,
a skirt of hunger. Threading night to day,
they tack dawn to a blue hour
that pales by the minute.
Lip lines ring her full mouth.
She cannot stave off time
which raises veins along her tapered hands,
fingers capped with polish lifting
an embroidery hoop to a lamp.
The flat dish of fabric brightens.
Somewhere within its blank weave
a code is trapped, a pattern
that once knotted will overcome
the space between the strands,
sheen itself into existence.
This moment is as slick as floss.
She tries to teeth it just so.
Lead it to needle, bind it to cloth.
This morning, though, she will need to also palm
the pure truth of seed and suet,
continue the doling,
enough to fatten up the birds’ reserves
for the arduous trip out of winter
into a blushing, ruddy sky.
(First appeared on The Pedestal Magazine — www.thepedestalmagazine.com)
