I weave the gold with clandestine fingers
In silken thread of head and heart

A skein of treasure lying on the floor
In a humble cottage of a far beyond wood

No passer by would think to look
Or care to consider the fortunes lost

When wayward men refuse the hearing
The spinning wheel behind the door.

(Previously published in Miller's Pond Poetry Magazine, January 2001, vol.3)

by Laurence Overmire

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