Penelope must have felt this way.
Weaving in the morning,
unweaving at night.
This threadwork of colors
forming, unforming
rolling, unrolling
running stitches, leaving holes,
loose, loose tiny holes.

I begin our story,
stop midway. Wasting
ink. Wasting
paper. Killing
trees. Hanging
my right hand in the air. Creaking
the door is. Only
it is the wind.

Holding out until your homecoming.