The Weaver
Her fingers are as thin as lace
Her eyes a milky blue
A web of hair surrounds her face
Her aim is strong and true
She lifts the thread up expertly
And now a life begins
She has no map to look upon
The loom not marked nor pinned
She pulls new colors from the shelf
Pink for love, red for hate
The pattern twists around itself
A patterned, tangled fate
The blanket sets itself aright
The weaver adds new string
The colors briefly faced to white
As Life encounters a ring
Brighter patterns come to play
As baby colors light the loom
The weaver starts to add some gray
As the blanket gathers gloom
One short line is colored black
Another soul has fled
The finished life laid on the rack,
The Weaver cuts the thread
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