wonderknot

Her brain is baking wonder pies
beneath a sword of Damocles
that life suspends
on thread of dread
above us each, on mother's knees.

But as we grow invulnerable
and wise, we don't much notice it.
It's theme and trope of tolling bells
in books.

Its sense
goes somewhere else to fit.

That thread
is plaything, now. We spin
and play and spool it out
like Gordians, we prize our knot.
No effort mindful or forgot
could undo all these tight-pulled
strands. No mind's-eye gaze could scry
this plan. No mind's-hand fingers
trace its ways.

Insoluble, the puzzle stays.

Until the days we lift our eyes, and there
suspended, spy the sword. It's hung up

still.
It looms and looms.
We've woven for it some reward