Needlepoint
Gretchen Johnsen
The past is tapestry. It never fails
its conservation, bright vermilion berries
and the soft dun beast, the unexpected horn.
The threads have found their way. I see
the fabric in my sleep, dream damask gardens
stitched and silent. Men and women wait.
My finger, pricked, signs scarlet on the cloth.
its conservation, bright vermilion berries
and the soft dun beast, the unexpected horn.
The threads have found their way. I see
the fabric in my sleep, dream damask gardens
stitched and silent. Men and women wait.
My finger, pricked, signs scarlet on the cloth.