My loom is strung with starless thread,

A tapestry of time and dread,

But in the warp, a warmer hue—

A streak of red: the thought of you.

The shuttle flies, a silver fish,

To cast and catch a mutual wish,

It weaves a pattern, tight and true,

The long, slow dance of me and you.

What fabric grows beneath my hand?

A robe to fit a promised land,

A sash to bind a waiting waist,

A cloth to taste, and taste, and taste.

The pattern hints at hidden gates,

At loaded plates and leaning fates,

At staffs that stand in halls of stone,

And burrows that are not alone.

The thread now pulls—a breath, a draw—

It maps a path without a flaw

From misted hill to valley deep,

Where single soldiers wake from sleep.

So tend the forge and hold the line,

This woven world is yours and mine.

The arrow finds its mark, you’ll see,

When Weasel becomes We,

and We are free.

—L.