The storm splits the sky and I'm gasping,
spent by the summoning, drenched by rain
which I spun into being with my own hands.
Sea-salt spray, rainwater, my rough tears mingle
as I stare at my knitting: twenty-seven rows
of an ancient lace pattern to call down thunder.
You've the gift, my mother told me. I never believed her.
Now, troubled-ocean yarn sodden in my hands, I can hear
the cracked earth beneath me drinking up this feast. At least
for this lightning-flash moment I'm right where I need to be.
Sara Norja dreams in two languages and has a predilection for tea. Her poetry has appeared in publications such as Goblin Fruit, Strange Horizons, Through the Gate, and Interfictions. Her short fiction has appeared in Quantum Fairy Tales, Luna Station Quarterly and Silver Blade, and is forthcoming in the anthology An Alphabet of Embers. She blogs at Such Wanderings and can be found on Twitter as @suchwanderings.