Weaving is a woman’s craft, and I have pulled art
out of air, the shading subtle. I had strung the warp,
risked it, knowing some patterns fade
before they become weft, pulled apart
and combed smooth, rewoven beneath the shuttle.
Before you call me cold, unturnable
see what was spun for me and allotted.
I am making a live thing, and though the days are long
time is short, and I will not break beauty again
for the sake of passing promise, no matter
how fine the thread.