The weaver speaks with his hands

This idyllic day should conjure up words like
daydream, breeze, lovely, carefree, ripe, and luxurious
but I move through my day with some agitation. I do
as I always do, my responsibilities, with pauses
for reverie. But my moments of thought are honeycomb’d

with words like careful, caution, reticence, and thief
and others such as grief, broken, torn and flambéed;
our days so carefree in the forest
as we reach the perimeter – bathed in sunlight-
each fault shown up, each danger splashed with crimson.

Hands that create and form and weave delicate strands
could be trusted, might be counted on
to put together a story that I could live with
my fancies coming to life with holidays and ruffled dresses-
childhood realities I knew existed – but not for me.

Weave me a tale of red leaves and sunshine
and an autumn day, most fair, but I know
it is April, not October. The monsters pounding
on the bolted doors, the bear paws clawing
at the eaves – they will find a way in-

7 thoughts on “The weaver speaks with his hands

  1. Such a wonderful weaving of wistful words and daydreaming and remembrances. I loved a number of lines and phrases but this one best – “Weave me a tale of red leaves and sunshine
    and an autumn day, most fair, but I know
    it is April, not October. Bravo!!

    Like

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