Ahead of the tapestry, a weaver
Does not philosophize about the thread.
Shed. Pick. Beat. Repeat. Not relishing
In completion, only fixating on
pushing the weft into place.
And yet, here I am, blocking
the stark sunlight with the promise
of a curtain. They lift and lower with
Control. Altered tension breaks
The monotony of color. Rhythmic but
Not musical. I celebrate at every beat,
Grin at each syllable that’s stuck
In the drafts formed by fleeting discipline.
Unable to finish. Unable to let go.

