The Weaver

by Alice Woodrome

There must have been a time
When she learned to weave,
She's forgotten how she came to know.
Don't ask her how she does it.
Only her hands know what to do.

She watches them in wonder—
As if watching the hands of another.
How do they know how to move
Without effort—so smoothly?

When did that red thread
get into the weaving?
In and out—she can see it—
Running through her work.

It must have been there for some time—
Unnoticed in the fabric—
It can be seen—hints of it, at least—
For a very long way back.

Is it blood from a wound, now healed
That stains the perfect cloth?
Forever marking the life
that has forgotten the passion
And moves along by rote?