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stale ink stallions chasing mares
across sheaves of parchment twelve yards long
transcend the boundary between not-and-so
and imprint themselves upon her tapestry.

the elves would read her threads
in shades of plated silver and leaf-veined gold,
but mortals had not the ability to discern
rose hued sunsets from nightingale dusks,
for moon's steerman loved sun-chariot maid
far too well for his own good.

sometimes she thinks they may perceive
the concentric spheres beyond what they call death,
yet burning ricepaper and last moon's bitter incense
couple with red-cut blessings and honeysuckle;
those with first-sight count blessings with sins.

pale flax woven on myrrh-scented looms,
long crafted from the umbral realm's newly dead
and carved with yesteryear's sweet mysteries,
becomes her final masterpiece.