Roughspun Heron

Though stirred by the slightest wind
in want of flight, without the wont,
I tumble, end over end,
the word of Fate a wayward taunt.

My wings are frayed and thin
and depend on the whims of air;
I cannot fly like my kin
whose wings of flesh and feather dare

the stirless sky, or the storm,
but must keep to currents of chance,
yet…such is also the norm
for all things born of circumstance,

for all things in manner made
to be as Nature chose for them
must likewise be as so bade
by fold and form, by stitch and hem

and come undone at the seams
by wear and tear, by mold and moth,
by Fate which compels such dreams
to animate both flesh and cloth.

Fate’s Flow

The weirding way of life’s weirs
are watersheds catching you unawares,
and though the Wyrd is the true Word,
the flow, at any begging, is undeterred
while the weaving Sisters Three
dance round and round as Destiny
with a cascading stair’s cadence of song,
neither intending good nor guilty of wrong—
for the waterwheel the Sisters spin
is Rota Fortuna, which overturns all men,
whether jester, peasant or king,
each raised or toppled by that mandala ring;
thankless, hopeless, and blameless
as all gods named or nameless.