Poem: The Weaver

I gather grass
at dawn.
I wait for the stars
to fall.

The basket must hold
what is lost
and what longs
to return.

Shadow enters
as a guest.
Light,
as an old friend.

I do not choose the threads.
They arrive—
blood-wet,
sun-warmed,
ash-soaked.

I weave
what the ancestors left
in the wind.

Sometimes
the basket is empty.
Still,
I weave.

Sometimes
the sky is too full.
Still,
I listen.

The wound is a gate.
The gold is what grows
beside it.

To weave
is to remember
without words.

To finish
is not my task.
Only to begin
again.