bridget martin

The papers feel light in my hands, thoughts like stardust glitter,
at once insignificant and laden with meaning.
I pull words from the air, they are slippery, hard to grasp,
stray ideas like butterflies flutter,
anticipatory magic.

A sudden memory, a pull across the sea,
caught by the wind, entangled in spindrift, pitched and rolled by waves,
ebbing and flowing, gathering and weaving,
threads like gentle sighs.

Unfold and open, hold and release,
at once insignificant and laden with meaning,
look for yourself,
then soft as a whisper, quiet as the moon,
rest and be held by the edges.

I fold the book and wind the thread,
held by the edges, let it rest,
soft as a whisper,
anticipatory magic.