Hard to believe

	                        a thread       could catch
	                                and hold them still

	                        against my skin.
	                             Seed-pearl, turquoise

	                        or bud of native flower?
	                                  Glass, its glitter and blade

	                             whittled by sea.
	                                     A tiny bi-valve

	                                  stubby as stone.
	                                        A black pebble

	                                     resolved as shadow.
	                        An oblong

	                          cut from a long walk   
	                                       on a cloudy morning—

	                                  strands of wind   gust of hair.
	                                                Thread—

	                                           fine as a wren

	                                               begins
                                                     a threnody for water

                                                             a threnody for air.