I find myself
dreaming about stories, as of old…
Nathaniel Hawthorne
You were in the Custom House
calculating
the cost of things
when Autumn struck
your eye
with her amber
light
and tongue
with her taste of cider.
Your mind
wandered along the wayside
where feather
grass and wild berries sprawled
over a split-rail
fence. Where carrot blossoms
held the
breath captive with their intricate weave
and dark
bloodspot. Blood -- legends say
a queen
spilled from pricking her finger
on the needle
while tatting lace. But you saw
something
different. A scarlet flourish begun
on cloth where
a woman stitched her shame
and shadowed
the door of her hut
with the shape
of an adulteress
shifting soon to
a mother -- who listened
as her child
turned in a cradle
facing the
sea.
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