Sonnet: The Sisters

I look at my wrist. The seconds don't stop

their inexorable round, heading south

to six, moving up to twelve, then the drop

again to three, to six, to nine. The plough

of time digs the furrows where we plant seeds

whose futures we sometimes imagine, but

mostly our work is simply our needs,

strong as our hearts before our thread is cut

by Atropos, who thinks the garment's done,

the size is right, every stitch is in place,

so she turns her mind to the yarn that's spun

and sewn that her sisters have made and graced

with luck, strength, hope, maybe love, maybe guile,

weighs it against time, adds it to the pile.

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