Yew chalks a boundary between death and immortal life; its symbol is I
-Book of Balymote, 1391
Imagine once upon a yew that she still lives and spins anew in maidenhair
to mend the blue wide avé nous once spun throughout and through the whorl
that thundered through the white hands where the pale maid sits turning just a girl. And when she wheels and spins and moans
into the shad, into the ‘oh’ ness of the crone
behind the spray and veiled, she weights a thread, thus come
how once she more than realized the tuffet moppet spot she sat upon
beds wet in mid and trough a knotting taut to realize the ‘is’ because
she was and is and calls her metis wove in h’s like a shroud, a cloud
she watched as kings reigned the weave within the spot where she is not
and wore instead a knot -a maiden shadow thrown
to orchestrate king-order in a vast disaster-us-affair, home-grown
the knot full well like ©hair in nothing more than (h)air inherited; begun
in not—no more a king than this, a plot: a plot of heirs who plot in hairs
stranded strands
twisted twists;
shadow mist
the god-airs stand behind her as she combs and cards the dew; O, she places
in her basket blue; the moon, now full behind them and between them, too
dewdrops fall
threads fall
mixed together in the blue
like complex compositions in the shading of a yew
the moon, her emblem, strung upon a string
spirals through the falling threads of dew no thing
the vault of heaven turns and in the turning light
in dispenser of this burning vortex theme
she drew -O... don't tell me!
the air of Eros in its lust
the ire of Ares in its thrust
insist this composing loveliness still spun of air
for her sheen already forming on the distaff drew
to h'earth in both in both what blew this foam the
thunderhead no longer knew; in downward move
in wave of blue, to heap all loveliness upon a yew
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