A wee verdin in the garden
Weaving like a bobbin
My attention to the pattern
Of four women on the horizon
Like that needle-point you worked
Of the seasons where did it end up
From here it's hard to tell
If the women are ascending
Or being swallowed by the hill
Urgently rushing toward me
Or just standing in tableau
The verdin like a thread
Pulls me steadily along
As I go out to meet you
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