New Moon

I will drift the forest behind blind eyes with her, just as she came, here on the new moon this morn. A new year, come ten days on the loom, rides her night tresses too. Time to wrap root and gather low, gather deep, and gather below. Gather, then, and keen no more.

If you knew me, you would understand — but I stand alone, unknown. I am wing and I am thorn, that is the best I can explain.

But when she comes, we gather: wrapping root and pricking low.