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