September

­­September’s light falls differently on the kitchen floor.

Red leaves hang like grace notes at the window, trailing

spools of silver, skeins of silky thread. This is the month

of spider webs: the gangwifre weaves as she walks,

sticky strands from spinnerets that web the hoar frost,

fix beads of rain on moonlit ropes. She spins in silk,

draws, twists, knots her lace; like ancient kinsfolk, spinning

wool from scattered sheep on slopes above the Nid;

listening to storms that tear down oaks, uprooting

gorse and thorn, as if picking haws, leaving scars.

Hunger drives them to the valleys, towns of fire and steam,

where they learn to card and spin in fine alpaca, skeins

of silky thread, spools of silver, hoar frost, moonlight,

woven into dresses, skirts that glide like grace notes, like silk.