Sunlight filters through clouds
The eastern window watches
You blink away the morning dew
Heavy with night
The southern window glares
Beckoning the fall come closer
Near now, fast rushing down
Knotted rope runs through Your hands
Smoke billowing out
The coughing western window
You breathe deeply
A charred lattice of ash for carpet
The last spear of light
Never touches the northern window
You hear the stream waiting
You dive into its longing rivulets
It is time
— for Him Who knows about facing fate on His own terms
Weaving the Net 