Everyday is a little
goodbye, a little
undoing. A child
was knit in
the womb:
Now it’s unraveling.
Take my heart
and spin threads, worlds,
whirring wings.
I am already dizzy
with the undoing.

Let me be the warp
on which you weave,
Whirring Wings.
Let me be
all but invisible,
blank canvas
the brush strokes.
Spin me down
like a top unwinding,
the spindle
coming to rest.

Every day is a little
hollowing, knot
in the wood,
a little less than
before: hope
without anchor
set sail, crossed
the horizon.
Every day is a little
hallowing, holy
haunt of high nesting
bird, perched
in the eaves,
beyond arches
and gargoyles.
Rain swept
the ghastly grins
off the gargoyles.
Shield my soul
now under
Whirring Wings.