Monday, December 18, 2017

Last Words From A Weaver’s Basket

It’s just you and me,
when the moon lies low
and the odd little winds blow,
here at our wood cabin by the sea.

It’s our moment together,
when the foghorn sound fades
through deep wooded shores forever,
and the ancient ghost ships wager.

Ships would find their way
by the island’s undertow.
They would ’round the bay
to the old red lighthouse's lantern glow.

The fog winds blew,
when the sky rained dew
over the tips of the woodland fir,
the weaver's basket drips with woven myrrh.

Spirit weavers stand,
as harmonic as the land—
in and out like the tide—
do the shell-brittle hands bide.

It’s just you and me,
still-weaving the sea,
from the heather on the hill
to the salt-hued gulls’ bill.

The rocks were rough and coarse
beneath the spirit weavers’ hands,
and they were graphite bands
departing in cedar-carved force.

There was a garden for a mile
just for you and me;
sit with me for awhile,
while the lilies weave by the sea.

By the mossy shore, the ocean sighs,
where a covert cove hides,
its fingers upon the harpsichord;
resplendent is the light through the plank boards.

Wait with me for a tear
while I echo here—
spirits weaving a basket into a braid,
sit here, while I am afraid.

When there is no more sun, and no more eves,
and the earth bows down,
we will be sinking into the ground.
Sit here, while the spirit weaves.

I let you hold my hand
between sea and land,
where the pulse beats fine;
there is enough dulse for you and I.

It’s just our last mussel pearl
for the sinking world,
while the wild wind blows,
and the glittering river flows.

I will not love lend,
but my fingers break and bend
with the spirit weavers, and boldly fare—
leaving behind my cold broken rocking chair.

The round wood door into paradise
lies low to the earth, but in a fever
who would unearth the gold weaver
and her basket: who would ever find it?

There is a gracious door for you and I
that we found by and by;
don’t forget to listen to the brine,
and decipher her salty rhyme.

See the women on the shore there
that have turned into stones;
there is someone singing into the foam—
and the spirit weavers are braiding her hair.

—Emily Isaacson

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