The Warm Weaver

Hola, I saw her today with a smile, so sweet and fresh like the milk she nourished me. She sat, on the back porch, weaving her passion, creating a web of caress, for this young heart---the black and white pic of a duck. I sat, not far, watching her eager hands with patience of a saint, as she stitched the last image, of her mind; sometimes, she threw looks at me, perhaps her conscience bothered her, for letting me, me alone, pass the time. ‘Cos for her, occasional strong wind howls that bother is her savoring concern, not wanting this young heart to live and be clothed by its un-gentleness, but rather be warmed by a mantle of love---her passion, her art. Hola, I saw her today with a smile, so sweet and fresh like the milk she nourished me, from her own breasts.