This poem is a personal one, written in memory of my mother, who was a weaver. I have fond memories of her sitting at her loom.
The Weaver
Before her thoughts began
to unravel,
past and present warped together
into a single strand of yarn,
my mother spent her Sundays
pushing a shuttle boat across a loom.
Red and white thread spooled into roses and hearts,
her fingers playing over light and dark colors,
recounting the world with their own
ordered brilliance, creating
a story in the weave of fabric.
There is no way to tell her story
without speaking of hands,
the way they craft a life
and how the craft is passed
mother to daughter
like a shuttle through the weft
changing imagination into something touchable
that can be caressed between finger and thumb,
and smoothed against troubled days.
to unravel,
past and present warped together
into a single strand of yarn,
my mother spent her Sundays
pushing a shuttle boat across a loom.
Red and white thread spooled into roses and hearts,
her fingers playing over light and dark colors,
recounting the world with their own
ordered brilliance, creating
a story in the weave of fabric.
There is no way to tell her story
without speaking of hands,
the way they craft a life
and how the craft is passed
mother to daughter
like a shuttle through the weft
changing imagination into something touchable
that can be caressed between finger and thumb,
and smoothed against troubled days.
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