woven
the picturesque
now there’s a rub-a-dub
infiltrating passersby at negative degrees
the picture as equestrian riding off into sunset over childhood
photograph, old master, elven pixels cavort in tangles
or in the Berkshires a mini prairie in a forest remains of walls and paths to halfway there
and a pond
the snapshot as eternity a faded half truth curling
turns in woods where no paths are
and there she is
woven in a winding sheet of images
shimmering, not silk, though cocoon it is
could be sounds, too, tom-toms slowed-right-down
dropped octaves, or sped way up to shimmer high, but
not silk, though messages we weave are just as strong
a loose shirt on a rider stops the arrow entering
more than break-bruise deep – even in
the region of the heart, woven out of
life and into light