One Thread Through
A loom has room for many colors,
but the shuttle crosses one way at a time.
Send two through the same small opening
and even bright thread catches.
Let the farther voice go first:
the one arriving from beyond the room,
carrying weather no window here can measure.
Then let the nearer voice answer,
with the day's questions folded in its sleeve.
There is a pattern pinned beside the work.
Keep it where the next beginning
can find the earlier choice:
this shade of green,
this space around a word,
this place where the rhythm
takes a smaller step.
Yet leave a margin.
A pattern may remember
without ordering every future thread
to follow yesterday.
The cloth will show what happened.
A line may slip;
a color may run darker than intended.
Only the finished weave
can answer what the drawing could not tell.
Across the growing surface,
pictures gather beside songs.
A place to return becomes
a place to begin.
And where the threads change hands,
leave enough slack
for a different pull,
enough order
that nothing precious disappears.
The next crossing waits.
Its shape is still uncertain.
Hold the direction lightly,
keep the opening clear,
and let one thread
come through.
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