I am a necklace.
My beads are threaded in a row, in a string.
I am a necklace which sings
with peculiar grace.
Between my singing stanzas is a space
across which something leans
to the next line, it means
well; it admits pace.
I am fine thread in ancient lace,
a series of risky stepping stones,
a case of moving bones.
If you've any comments on this poem, Helena Nelson would be pleased to hear