pearls strung up on silk thread, the starry one

wearied, drained, weaving in
exhaustion, utter enervation but
a good start, a good start. last
year's leaves are crushed to powder and
flight struts, the sleight of hand to
hide them underfoot abandoned in
favor of open piles, near the partially
repaired gate. those will later burn
with the rest of the dross that can be
consumed by fire.

stones pushed aside, force of strength that
made my arms tremble, but necessary,
necessary. stealing moments in time now and
again, sitting by the far wall, chipping
old mortar from rocks, to prepare them to
be mortared again. rising as soon as my
breath doesn't catch, and sweeping again, the
broom as old as the stone walls, maybe
older.

but all pathways are clear, now, swept
down to brick and earth, the leaves swept
to the front gates, the stones
smooth and round and waiting. tomorrow
I rebuild the walls. the day after, I
rebuild the gate. the day after, I lock it.

there are still keys. I am not so lost as
to remove all access. I've fought too hard
for what I've gained, suffered pain and
tears and memory. I have paid dearly for
every step forward. I will pay still. but
for now, the walls will rise, the
gates will halt casual entry, and I
will not live in the gatehouse
from now on.

I will close off all underground
access. I will sweep the house next. I
will plant poppies, stargazer lilies, sage and
stock, sunflowers to nod their sleepy heads to
fill the garden. I may excavate
a plot on the other side, and line that with
rows of tomato vines, snap beans, plant potatoes
and winter squash. cucumbers. carrots. parsley
and lemon balm.

sage by the door, always. repaint the stars
on the sills. light no candles and sit
in the restful dark, feeling the expected ache
of muscles put to constructive use. the
planting is for tomorrow, but it's been
a good start, a good start.