He gathered thread from the twilit sky
while she set the loom—
the warp and weft of passing time
and fingers interlocked,
a sturdy frame of promises,
a treadle made of dreams.
Their hands stained royal blue as they
spread the cloth beneath the moon and
worked into the night,
cutting shapes more careful than
constellations, stitching seam to seam of
infinity bound up on his shoulders,
settled at their waists,
flowing past her feet.
When she sat down to embroider,
the thin, cold needle cried loudly as with
the cries of many voices:
Blessings and fortune, it said,
hanging ancestral gold at the gown's
neckline, and it spoke like
mountains upon mountains,
the dignity of endurance and the
wisdom of good age,
oh, blessings and fortune to you.
Love and be loved, the needle sang
like a dozen stars at once, and with it
she called us, caught us
one by one until we danced
around the dress and formed a sparkling
circle for her hair,
a silver wreathing for his brow,
crying welcome, brother,
welcome—singing love
and everlasting love,
oh sister, all to you.