The Weaver’s Hands
A beautiful cloth, terribly torn
Ragged edges, mildewing, left on the ground
Silken threads frayed, golden threads tangled
Partially buried, trampled in passing.
Was it a flag? Royal raiment? A much loved quilt?
Perhaps a tapestry, once gracing a royal hall;
Impossible to tell, crumpled, and dirt covered;
Left behind, neglected, and partially buried.
But a master weaver, passing near, stopped
To consider the beauty and ponder the ruin.
With gentle hand, untangling the cloth from the ground
And from the invading roots, brushing off leaves and dirt.
Lovingly folded, carefully carried, back to the workshop
And examined in the light; there was still beauty in the cloth.
It was a tapestry! It still told a story, though ripped and battered;
Silently, carefully the master began to reweave.
Teasing apart the trembling fibers, masterful fingers needed
No tools, lovingly excising the parts that were spoiled, to save
All the rest, and the beauty remaining, the story in the cloth,
Cloth of gold, still with bright bits of scarlet and indigo silk.
The master weaver sorted through his stored threads, and a thread at a time
Repaired each tear, each rent, each removed rotted bit; soon the story
Shone forth; a tapestry reborn in the Weaver’s strong hands.
The story of a child from birth, through all the stages of life.
Light thread and dark thread, gold and silk, a tapestry reborn.
Cloth that had seemed damaged beyond repair, now glowing with beauty,
Repaired, one thread at a time, by the strong hands, the loving hands
Of the Master Weaver, telling a story of beauty anew.
cDeborah Sirotkin Butler 4/15/13
