By Jennifer Brookins

I had almost forgotten you my spring beloved last caught up as I am in this secret rebirth repeating itself this time each year. My possessive heart would wrap you in my head scarf, make you every bit as finite as those very things I wish safe passage from. Oh Weaver, be generous for I am so foolish. Hold me captive in your moon pocket. How long the distance between a bud and a flowering rose? I retrace my footsteps same as swallows exhaust themselves winging back to Capistrano each year. Again and again I turn my face to you. Your darshan weaves feelings in me that moves my heart to prayer

From Living Under the Weaver’s Hut

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

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