You have let another dream drift free. Did you see it flash in the water? After the nights of weaving, silver and silk, by the reflected shimmer of lakes and starscape, after the mornings of quiet canoe and castings into the light air, unawakened stillness, you have let slip the threads, and seen a ripple to mark the passage of your reveries. Did you not realise, as your fingers made such delicate knots, that this would be your poem? Did you not realise, as you offered your exquisite web, that this would be your place? A silken slide, a silver ripple: no more. Draw in the net. Your hands are fluid and long, smooth as the touch that opens the morning. Draw in the net. A silver shawl filagrees the water's breast. Wear it, wear it, to warm your elegant ankles, your matchless shoulders.