Wednesday, like all days, is a great day for poetry
My mother was a weaver. After she died, I wrote this in her memory.
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.
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.
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