On a clearer morning, one could crane across
the torn fabric of spacetime, and with their hands,
unfold the worn, nearly see through thread, of choices.
Here, I see how your firstborn daughter
could have been mine, how the angry scorn,
words sworn from our lips, made that twinkle
wither, a thorn in our eyes.
Tricauhilo: A poem with two 34 syllable stanzas. The tercet is 11, 11, 12. The quatrain is 9, 9, 9, 7. There is a thread rhyme that runs throughout each line of the poem. In this one: morning, torn, worn, born, scorn, sworn, thorn.