we couldn’t find a robin for our small tree
but we are rewarded by the low December sky
seen through winter woods.
How would you render that?
Free-machining on felt, she says
or dyed silk.
Intricate branches stitched black and fine
on shining sunset, colours run and merge under a hem of soft felt clouds.
Ephemeral light, inconsequential, worth remembering.
Tomorrow the year turns.