History, Unraveling

that history, unraveling from
the edges of the tapestry
unweaving, each day, a little
more, the scenes of unicorns

recumbent, fading from view as
he turns to her with quizzical
looks and the riddle of his
fingers spanning round her waist, the

Cloisters in dark November, tracing
the face of the woman, stone-
hewn

riddle me, riddle me, randy-ro,
my father gave me seed to sow

they bloom now, in Spring, so many
seasons later,
sleeping, have they been sleeping

these many years, a long
hibernation of sorts, bursting forth
only now, their histories
writ upon their petals,
florid and pale by turns