February first: the membrane of time
has grown so thin it leaks memories.

Like the season, the body strains towards 
a barely visible light, strives to find 

some solid thing to hold onto.
A straw will do, not necessarily the last,

one blade of grass, even one thread
can become the first in a weave

that sparks a multi-coloured paisley
with blazing tongues of Zoroastrian fire

as hands like kingfishers dart about the loom 
and the carpet thrums as it grows.