Thursday, October 30, 2008

Her At Her Looms

Music without warning at the door of a neighbor. The grotesque proceeding, which took place at night, precluded lavender. Her shift and hairlace and no other clothing, her eyes ablaze like a red hot poker.

In February of course, made by the blacksmith out of worn-out scythe blades. "My Gramp had got a little beyond that," he said, and it took years to form an objection. Whittled out of staghorn shoemake how 'bout.

A foaming dish of eggnog. A fillip of the divided finger. The old habit of wetting apple seeds, sticking them to the cheek or forehead or cheek after assigning them a lover's name, and seeing which one fell of last while we chanted and sang and filled the room with song.

With his cheese under his arm, the wandering preacher took the floor. In time, all men grow mad and exert himself. In the guise of a tinker, against the devil.

Lest she cause a murrain to come upon cattle! Her back door was a tree full of red apples not a one of which ever rotted. And woe to anyone who hurried her at her looms.

Dreamed of ghost fishes slatted into empty barrels knocking in the hold. Rather than keep her at a dead loss they found an unsuspecting buyer. On board was a box belonging to a handhorn which nobody could open.

You with the lead, do you hear me crying? Following a trail, growing old in the dirt?

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