Poetry of Robert Fisher
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The wind shrieks around the building,
Like the flute in a n? drama,
And the clouds gather grey and low.
I can feel my wife’s presence,
And the hairs on my neck prickle.
I hear the clacking of a loom,
But I cannot move.
I know she is weaving.
She tells me from around the corner,
“It is not yet woven,
But I see it in my mind,
The weft and the woof.”
I could see her shadow cast
Across the threshold,
Bent, her hair much longer now.
The pattern, she tells me, is
A crane spreading his wide white wings,
His stick-like legs standing
Among the green rice shoots,
Calling for his mate
In the mountain silence.

March 31st, 2017

crane