Poem 20151129

the shuttle moves and clacks
all the strands are the same color
save one
a single red thread
a thick as a threat
dark as blood
never pumped by human heart

the weaver
swears there is a pattern
though the skeins
seem all the same
colorless as dun
against the heath

the hands move
the threads move
save one
that wraps around stars
that wraps around us

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