She was born as sea's seventh daughter,
carpentry's flash-fluttering fingers
gave a springtime's animation to corded bone.
She was a past's great grace about her,
not ours but one woven in mist-riddled
novella, more shaped than life could be.
And future's good fortune, too,
wraps a stranded first band of
set carousel finish gilding upon her.
In the open door porch planks,
soaking rain wet in penny-cinema style,
I ran up to confess in knowing
this becomes all history in the end,
the filling pulp of mite-bitten shelves,
selective pages rare to meet fingerprint stain.
But so too does fortune, the stopped spinning
of hobby horses on the pine to show
it is only now that is worth the living.