My Admiration For A Hand-Woven Tapestry

Each thread hums — drawn by patient hands, dyed in storms and thaw. The base is pale as morning frost, fibers holding winter’s quiet breath. Across it, ribbons of shifting hues wind like rivers — green bending to blue, violet bruised into pink. At the center, twin knots gleam — changing under every flicker of light, tidal glass or meadowstone, never the same twice. Edges fray softly, not from neglect but from touch repeated, cherished. The whole cloth sways with a living pulse — a work forever becoming, never complete.