1. |
Maker's Song
05:27
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On the spindle threading gold
my needlepoint pierces the heart of this old
wood whose grain is dark red like blood or tears were dried
after it closed them deep inside.
The hair of Adam is a fine weave,
crushed of dirt fired in earth at eternity,
ladders of gold double
your healing climbing helix
On the spindle,
threading gold
My hands of oil are what I have
to take this wood cut down by the unfeeling
and make smooth its roughened sides.
sanding the grain
brushing its waves
easing loose the knots.
On the spindle,
threading gold
Who were you
in a coppice bend
sustaining life
out of reach of ruinous men?
Who am I
to be threading gold in your wounds of time?
On the spindle,
threading gold
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