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.
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