From willow trees and sharp-cut stone,
Of weathered sight and still storm skies.
A wolf that, placid, watches, roams;
Through gentle, fierce, and wild eyes.
Yet when his hand glides o’er the string
From wolf emerges graceful swan.
Such notes of glass and porcelain ring;
A gentle sky, a brightening dawn.
The swan sings throatedly and rich,
Yet pure, unblemished notes arise.
With sacred spools of thread, they stitch
Together, ‘till the last note dies.
But even swan-eyed, he won’t see;
He’ll never know to look for me.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 3:24 PM UTC
From willow trees and sharp-cut stone,
Of weathered sight and still storm skies.
A wolf that, placid, watches, roams;
Through gentle, fierce, and wild eyes.
Yet when his hand glides o’er the string
From wolf emerges graceful swan.
Such notes of glass and porcelain ring;
A gentle sky, a brightening dawn.
The swan sings throatedly and rich,
Yet pure, unblemished notes arise.
With sacred spools of thread, they stitch
Together, ‘till the last note dies.
But even swan-eyed, he won’t see;
He’ll never know to look for me.
