The Days Of Weaving Are Gone


Threads of green, white and gold. The woof The treadled in a classic pattern. The Eyes hold the warp: Red, white and blue The treadles dance Shuttle  thrown weft. Bind the sides of the garment as surely I am bound to the directions that never meet … Always connected. That is me. The voice of the soul. We are unified in eternity. I will belong to you one day. When the threads are cut. When the garment in finished and All the tales of Love, All the flights of fancy are Woven into one creation, Waiting for us, unborn, in this world. Wanted and promised. The threads never crossed here, Never anchored, Never twisted and spun In the distaff these hands missed, In a world that did not allow somewhere is the Life I have woven to cover my heart. To protect it from a cold world that does not even know What is a warp, woof or weft. A world whose sun is merciless. That has no idea of It’s making. I have been a weaver. I have spun real thread with callused fingers Casting out it’s spell on those who know. The greatness of ‘was’ is gone. The tomorrow will need hearts of steel Tempered in the fire of fearlessness. The days of weaving are gone….

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