The woman sits down in her chair at dusk
Having harvested the treasures of her day;
The paddle board and kayak stowed
Nothing remained but the words’ flow.
For many years, she wove a blanket
With certain colors and particular patterns
As seen in a book or demanded by masters. Yet,
The treasures of her day spoke different tones,
Exposed unique designs only she could see.
Time came, time went. Patience’s virtue
Slowly became the value she needed most.
The moon rose to offer its reflections.
At last, she had harvested the threads
With hues and their complements discovered
In the patterns of conversations, something
Undesigned at last but to be assembled
One stitch at at time. A life she could weave
Together with the moon’s reflection, the season
Inviting her inside out to dance: Stars,
As they point to a story yet to be told,
Ask the teller to weave for them her color.