She leans into her needlework and sees
Assisi rising in the silken strands,
her body like a question mark, at ease,
as though she wove her answers with her hands.
Then, with a thought, she rises into flight,
leaving the air quivering behind her,
so one might guess that she were made of light,
dancing around a memory’s whisper.
She comes back nonchalant, with a bouquet
of nothing but a smile, and youthful blooms
she places in a vase—as if to say,
These are my selves, whose fragrance fills these rooms.
And then her slender fingers weave, and know
the years between us, gathered like the snow.