The Brooklyn Rail

Millefleurs

Some days, when I am
a blip in the universe,
I open the card
with its tapestry top.

Grandma knows: poetry
takes some strength,
just like weaving
threads, weft and warp,

loom-crossed, the handwork
and hours becoming cord
around a cherub’s waist,
deep blue field of flowers,

strange order in the air
of daytime moon,
half shadow of open vessel
and a glance back.

This world will not hold you,
nor are there boundaries
to the path. There is only
the invisible line drawn

from the open palm,
only gestures of connection,
that fragile thing,
uplifting the child without wings.