Golden Thread
by Jane Lang
In memory of Barbara and Carol

Who’ll be left to
write poems about
so long ago I forget
the start-date.
Ten little Indians
sitting on a fence
nine, eight
ashes, ashes
all fall down
smoldering embers.
I will dance for you
though my footsteps
falter
the beat of a drum
holds steady and
moves my limbs
seers my mind
and I remember each
golden thread that
wove us all together.

 

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