She took the mantle from its wrappings,
Stored for years against the moths and dust
Of accumulated inactivity.
The satin weight of fur slides through her fingers
Like the memories it holds
Caught, immobile for a moment
Within its pristine folds.
There is no photograph to share,
She was not captured
High upon the cliff or in the cavern,
Salt spray on her lips
And sea-thrift in her hair
Playing with the wind as the sun rose.
Cloaked in memory, as in the fabric folds,
She walked in silent wonder
At the death-in-life encompassed,
Contemplating new beginnings held in endings,
Bound by a blood stained cord.
It binds her still.
Deeper than the ocean that she gazed upon,
A single thread of evanescent Light
That winds about her then, her now,
Entwined with her tomorrow
And all about her falls the snowy mantle,
Weighty folds enshroud her
As she remembers who she was and will become,
Lady in White.