figures hand-braided from straw, then painted.
When the witches cast their spells,
these tiny figures dream themselves into life.
We gaze spellbound at their dancing.
Three witches: one spins the yarn,
one measures the cloth,
one wields the black obsidian knife,
trimming each tiny thread.
Infinitesimal clockwork figures
balancing on wool, their mouths opening
and closing, silent, like goldfish.
Wooden teeth comb each thread,
the shuttle always moving, weaving whose fate?
Interlaced castillos, scintillating cities,
grecas floating lighter than this relámpago,
this lightning that lightens the air.
rogermoorepoet 