With graceful turns at languid pace the moon
revolves, and rabbit plays his game of chase.
While far below in silent spin the race
of Earth may stand transfixed in awe of tune
celestial. Yet through the night are strewn,
unseen by nearly every upturned face,
the tell-tale signs of Clotho's wondrous grace:
of time aligned in time and none too soon.
This yarn, so finely plied of silken thread,
envelops all. And yet we cannot see
nor hear, nor taste nor touch and feel its hand,
'til neath the ground we lastly make our bed.
What staple length allows a draft so free
when moons as whorls may spin at your command?