In the woods, by the lake, on the streets, I looked for you.

She was surprised to find a knotted bundle of threads at the bottom of the pot, a lot softer and silkier than the scratchy thistle fibers her shirt was made of, and they were all bright blue, like the sky and the waters, and looked so beautiful that they didn’t seem to belong to this world.

In large cauldrons, hard winter wheat, washed in seven unbegun waters, had been boiling for hours, until it turned soft and chewy, and shed its hard shell. During all this time it was stirred, and whispered incantations and blessings.