After news
of the travel ban,
I begin to knit
a garment the color
of lichen, the color
of moss steeped
in clear mountain
streams. I hope
to never finish,
to nightly unravel.
I think I know
who it is for
but as long as there
remain obstacles
to its delivery,
perhaps the pigeons
will sleep with heads
bent beneath one wing,
perhaps the spirits
will continue their
restless hovering: not
finding a ledge eager
to give up its warmth, a
shell not hardened to quartz.
In response to Via Negativa: Thread.