Clotho, blond hair flowing down her shoulders,
stares at me, smiling as she spins blue thread.
What future for me? I ask her, bolder
now I’ve touched her silk face. She nods instead
of speaking, urging me to recognize
Lachesis, lying on her nearby couch,
her measuring rod allotting flax, eyes
intent on each exact inch. I turn, crouch
beside her, repeat my line with purposed
respect. Without a word or glance, reaching
out her clinched hand, she offers Atropos
a lengthy strand. I quip, Now no preaching,
maiden. But please answer for your sisters.
She glares, studies me, and lifts her scissors.
Roger Armbrust
January 5, 2010
