Repairs

For Nancy

Her jet appears from nowhere,

a needle punched through blue linen,

making a looping stitch

above the rough horizon,

the ragged fields and raveled

winter limbs a tattered hem

she mends descending.

Down the steady air

she draws the thread,

its far end knotted

on the backside of the sky

where all the seams and hidden stitches

hold a universe together,

a secret tailoring she understands;

and when she lands she makes

the needed alterations to the heart.