as if it were as natural as breathing.
She plucks at the warp like a grandmother
picking lint from an old sweater
but the pattern climbs like a beautiful moss
up the north side of her loom so slowly
the children think she does nothing all day long.
The sun comes up, the sun goes down
and nothing between but the rhythm
caught fast in the tangle of weft.
At night she unbraids her children's hair
and combs it smooth, telling stories
of the old ways when animals spoke in riddles
to guard their secrets from those
who would unravel the world for themselves.
If she finally closes her eyes
it is only to better hear her children breathing
amid the shuttle of light on the highway
and the bleating of sheep in the field.