The pieces of wool were meshed as one. Her hand flew as she worked the loom.
The pieces of wool were meshed as one.
Her hand flew as she worked the loom.
She would not stop till the piece was done
as sunlight filtered into the tiny room.
A bead of sweat trailed down her cheek
as on she wove and left her mark.
Though years were on her and she grew weak
She sang and created till well past dark.
My eyes grew weary and longed for sleep
so off to bed I labored kissing her face.
I dreamed of golden hollows and forests deep
and traveled to some far off place.
I know she had not only woven that tapestry
from colored yarn and string she bought.
She had somehow worked magic on me
because somehow I found the things I sought.