the spindle

long skeins run north to south
in heather strands of grey
with flecks of white and black spun in
knitting winter from the winds
blending soft angora flakes of snow
with rugged red and chestnut wool
to craft a fabric that wraps the world
in somnolent silence
the seed of summer lies quiet
a small death that will spin
backward come april when the
long skeins run south to north again
pulling the yarns of wool away
letting the warm silk breezes of may
weave a warmer garment still