Seven Eight Nine

When the new millenia turned, so did I.

The seventh born in my generation – the seventh in my line.

But it wasn’t seven I first found solace in.

Numbers aren’t important to my family, because patterns carry more weight.

And so when the first year past in calamity, I found my strength in blocks of eight.

And eight and sixteen and twenty-four went

(by way of rescued feral cats and innocence spent).

But the bindings I divined later in life always spit back knots clotted by nines.

“First to call, third on wish, fifth by design…”

Seven – bound to my blood.

Eight – bound to my heart.

Nine – bound to my line –

Nine knots in a golden thread, stretched twixt twisted hands colored by dead men’s dread…

And, like the nature of the spells I wove, I was entangled in its dreamlike webs…

And now, 21 years after that first call, I’m reminded of little lost time ‐ a vignette of my child self, posing as a nymph, wishing sly little witz to the mirror of my pool, dipping fingers in to see the cool ripples toss at its loamy brine:

“Why was Six afraid of Seven?” I asked.

…

Happy Seventh Anniversary to the Denizens of the Nest.

The bird is soon to return to rest…