This poem comes out of the story
Each day I sit by the fire
and weave a shroud
with the thread of my tears.
Would be lovers pass by the window,
the cool shadows of their bodies fall
through the doorway.
Their wooing voices are carried away
by the wind and only
the click of my loom fills the silence.
I turn my longing into cloth,
touchable, I can run it under my fingers.
When night comes, I unravel my hunger
and send it to the dark skies, hoping
the warp of stars will find you.
Once finished with the night work,
I fall into a sea of dreams--
gold breaking at sunrise,
billowing white sails--
the linen promise of your return.