subtext

She holds future’s traces

loosely at her fingertips.

Ribbons of sibilant light

stream from her hands.

Each strand, a different color,

opens into our possibility.

She can sense the pull and slack

on the reins, as each moment

vies for a breach in the present;

even as one occludes the other.

So many patterns to account,

so many desires to entice,

so little time to control, until

nothing that cannot be can be so.