Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Wednesday Poems: The Weaver

Wednesday, like all days, is a great day for poetry

My mother was a weaver. After she died, I wrote this in her memory.

This Leesburg loom is similar to the one my mother owned

The Weaver

Before her thoughts began to unravel into a sea of yarn,
past and present warped together into a single fabric,
my mother would spend her Sundays
pushing a shuttle boat across a loom,
turning red and white thread into roses.
Her soft stubbed fingers would play over colors,
light and dark, and recount the world
into her own ordered brilliance--
a story woven in fabric

There is no way to tell this story but with hands,
the way they crafted a life,
and how the craft is passed
mother to daughter
like a thread through Aida cloth--
turning imagination into something that can be held
between finger and thumb,
something that can be smoothed
against your cheek.

No comments:

Post a Comment