The Weaver Who Dyes

 Flames of dye anoint

Roving weft illuminates

 What warp embodies                                                      

 You emerge from roots, berries, bark, leaves,

grasping mounds of black walnut earth,

saffron rags and wool

Your indigo thoughts merge,

forming circles of roving around stone

You enter the stream of your loom:

hand deftly pitches shuttle to hand,

hands pull the beater and pull it hard,

batten your rug, grab the shuttle,

again and again

like tides ebbing and flowing,

tides stained indigo, lichen green, and iron

leaving traces of oceans, fields, and mountains

on your hands, on your life,

salted, worn,

like the fisher’s hands that work the nets,

hands that wear and never wear out.

Your gaze opens a horizon of ochre suns

resting in your heart

you exhale seascapes

squandering nothing

  Francis Opila