I linger, silent for a moment’s breath,

The spindle of necessity

Turns the axis of the worlds;

My leaf has fallen from the autumn trees,

Bare and trembling,

And slipped between the pages

To find its rest,

Preparing winter’s gentle bed.

In the book, where black and white entwine,

Through woven lines of secret knowing,

It seeks a knot to hold, to cling—

And with a turn, unwind the day,

A tale that flows from October

Into April’s thaw.

Oh, the spindle draws its line,

Grain by grain, it orders time;

Every furrow carved in chance,

Through the river of uncertainty.

And the calendar grows full,

Scattered notes across its skin,

Where the flights of cranes in rows

Inscribe their quiet history.

Each particle is placed in turn,

The spindle’s end etches deep

A furrow for all possibilities,

Through careless streams of indeterminate dreams.

The calendar swells with ink,

Covered in the marks of motives—

Moments weaving like a wedge of birds,

Pressing their story rough and slow

Into the fabric of the worlds,

Day by day, a patient step.

Threads unwind, yet bind us still,

Turning pages, bending will;

From autumn’s fall to spring’s embrace,

Time spins its circle, face to face.

And so it writes, with steady hand,

Across the silent shifting sand—

A journey carved in fragile tone,

The story walks,

Day by day, alone.