And they digged in the torrent
and found living water.
New Zealand flax embodies the text for
Evening’s glow: like a match head’s spaded flame
Woven into dark, it spreads its texture,
Zealous to burn, beyond the stars. The same
Entreats the swingle’s blade, heckling whole cloth
A gathered netting of exotic clades.
Loosely to equivocate such tangled kith
And kin, there the linen’s weave still abides.
Naturally sourced, Isaac’s vested claims will last,
Drawn tight as names of wells that spill salvation
Forming his challenge and opposition –
Like flaxen fibers after being doused
And ret for choicest fabrics, fought for among
Xenophobic tribes, and knit seamlessly strong.
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