Knitted

I am waiting for rain.
I am waiting on a Sunday.
Calm sometimes and sometimes fierce.
She waits for years like a widow weaving a web,
and she knits the words written in blood.

Blood from her nose touched to a tree.
She just knew to put her prints there on that bark,
because of the timing, because of all the memories flooding in.

Long roots, dug in dirt...
this waiting for the rain and thunder and light.

Because of the light and might were of The Father...
the "Man Upstairs."

And she knew him and that she had been knitted by that black spider for "ONE."