Row by Row

The Weaver’s shuttle passes through
The warp of life each day
With crafted threads of varied hue –
Of crimson, gold, or gray.

At first they’re loose and somewhat raw,
We process – laugh or grieve –
The swirl of things we felt and saw
And wonder at the weave.

Until the batten sets the weft
And joins it to the whole –
As time moves on, the past is left
To guide but not control.

Thus seasons run – at first they seem
So jumbled and unclear,
Then, as they join time’s steady stream
Their beauties all appear.

So when today seems oh, so swift,
Or pain feels oh, so slow,
The Weaver knows the pattern’s drift
And builds it row by row.

Christina Joy Hommes