Woven from the Same Cloth

Hyacinth garden

the shuttle thuds on with her passing days.

work on the threads.

when they are threadbare.

when tears and laughter are woven together.

all too easily, June turned to December.

turn like the wheels of necessary reflection,

shadows grow on the machinery and gears.

she laughs softly, clearing her throat,

or she'll choke on the fears.

hearing the whisper,

those secrets of the loom,

they are softer still.

at least the loom has someone

who’ll listen…

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