Deflect the Pulse of Time

The old woman walks the
barren dirt road,  crazed escort  searching for a split in the fabric  
to make way for the deceased.  
She spirals,  seemingly without
 a cause seeing only through
 the eyes of a butterfly, on a  
cross-stitch grid.
 
An  old man sits, on the edge  
of the grid,  his needle held high.
Solitaire shows on his face.  
He smiles at birds, carrying  
three red eggs, to trade for the
split fabric the old woman  
searches for
 
 Tall sharp grass, slices through  
the woods where the circle of  
three bearded elders sew new
 eyes for the blind five times  
They wait, on two  children  
without names who no longer  
play without the sun  
 
The tired one carries  a brass key
 the other is awake has two red  
flowers.
Together they deflect the pulse  
of time while watching  for the  
burn  that comes with the dawn.