The tapestry,
luminous in floss-full exactitude,
frays;
her needle falls—
revealing angel-gliding through Heaven's door—
with hummingbird hovering the low lavender,
close, so close—
whisperings in winged rhythm,
over and over and over—
solace to the gasps
of my heart-rent soul—
as setting sun, catching rays of sobs in its vibrant net,
drowns the quiet stillness—
droplets watering a stone pathway to muted gray;
while lavender, lily, rose, phlox and hollyhock
bend inward with grace—
mystical embrace,
untying knots of elusive memories—
blurred in the missing of a stitch—
up and down, up and down,
counting featherlight pricks of a requiem—
a banshee moan of brevity—
belonging,
everso fleetingly,
to the richly-hued sorting of cross-stitched dreams,
over and over and over;
yet her needle falls—
having graced the lush canvas of earth—
an intricate fingering of floss-full beatitude—
interwoven full!