Musings by The Poet Loriet
What Tangled Webs We Weave
When two people meet,
talk, get to know each other,
they weave intricate
webs together.
With each thing
they discover in common,
each shared laugh,
memory made,
another web is spun.
You throw your web
over me. I throw
one over you
until we are inter-
woven closer and closer
together.
The threads are stretchy,
bonding us yet allowing
us to unravel a little
as long as we spin
back together like
a yo-yo.
That's why it hurts when
two people break up...
they don't break, they tear,
leaving jagged edges,
knots, severed
dangling threads,
ripped at the seams.
And tailoring,
it seems,
is a lost art.
Quick fancy machines
are no replacement
for hand-stitching.
Slowly, as my grandma
would have done
with an heirloom quilt,
I tie up my loose ends,
one thread at a time,
and weave with
new colors,
stronger threads.
I embroider roses
to your bosom and
cross my stitches
with your awkward ones,
trying not to hurt you
with my sharp needle.
Together,
we will turn
spider webs
into lace.
Just be patient.
These handiworks
take time and
(h)art.
Sew with me, honey,
on these long cold nights
in front of the fire.
We'll sip wine and laugh
and forget to count
the stitches.
Just follow
God's design,
the one he wrote for us
in the stars above.
We'll tuck ourselves in
to our own love quilt
and never be left
in the cold again.
Cover me...
come to bed.
I promise to share
and never steal
your covers.
Lori Beal
talk, get to know each other,
they weave intricate
webs together.
With each thing
they discover in common,
each shared laugh,
memory made,
another web is spun.
You throw your web
over me. I throw
one over you
until we are inter-
woven closer and closer
together.
The threads are stretchy,
bonding us yet allowing
us to unravel a little
as long as we spin
back together like
a yo-yo.
That's why it hurts when
two people break up...
they don't break, they tear,
leaving jagged edges,
knots, severed
dangling threads,
ripped at the seams.
And tailoring,
it seems,
is a lost art.
Quick fancy machines
are no replacement
for hand-stitching.
Slowly, as my grandma
would have done
with an heirloom quilt,
I tie up my loose ends,
one thread at a time,
and weave with
new colors,
stronger threads.
I embroider roses
to your bosom and
cross my stitches
with your awkward ones,
trying not to hurt you
with my sharp needle.
Together,
we will turn
spider webs
into lace.
Just be patient.
These handiworks
take time and
(h)art.
Sew with me, honey,
on these long cold nights
in front of the fire.
We'll sip wine and laugh
and forget to count
the stitches.
Just follow
God's design,
the one he wrote for us
in the stars above.
We'll tuck ourselves in
to our own love quilt
and never be left
in the cold again.
Cover me...
come to bed.
I promise to share
and never steal
your covers.
Lori Beal
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
What Tangled Webs We Weave
What Tangled Webs We Weave
