Georgia A. Popoff

The Doom Weaver

You cannot accept
the tender of my love.
Your grief waters my garden.

When sun blesses your hair,
I collect strands lost to your brush,
spin gold so fine silk shivers.

Were it within my power
I would weave a shawl
on the warp of night

and protect the veiled
mirrors from the fear
in your faces.

I would bury a small holy box
of limitless ashes in a place
only you and I could find.