Whipstitch, running stitch, feather,
chain; and leaves of the apple tree
that we filled in with close-lipped
satin. See the mercerized gloss,
the crimson lifting the fruit away
from the weave, an outline to make it
more beckoning— Within the hoop
that cinched the frame, a space
for working out the eternal
questions: what name do you give
the broad leaf that becomes your bed?
how many knots will signify desire?
Don’t pull the snarls apart, only tug
at them gently. After the fruit’s
been plucked and eaten, after the birds
have flown away, the sky’s blue canvas
does not fall to pieces at your feet.
The only hedge that needs repair
is the one that rings the sundial.
The difference between before
and after is that now, time ticks
louder. Ivy runs rampant underfoot;
thistle, groundsel, chokeweed. So much
you wish sometimes you didn’t know.
In response to Via Negativa: Sweet nothing.