The Loom
The shuttle of her loom Thuds dully against the rug,
being woven, from the rags, Tags of other peoples lives.
I watched her in the cellar, with shadows whispering in the corners.
She seemed ancient to me, even then.
The fingers bent, the breasts sagging.
Myself wrapped in the coccoon of her quiet whistling.
The shuttle thuds
Over the days and years of my adolescence.
Surely youth: So sure, so independant.
She weaves the rug from the rags Tags of other peoples lives.
And the foreign woman, with the tooth-gold-capped,
and Loblaw's shopping bag Full of tatters.
Arrives too late for her four dollar rug.
The loom-dismantled, Bound, sold.
Another time-gone.
Cheryl L. Edwards
Copyright ©2008 Cheryl L.Edwards
Please Read -Disclaimer
I am not a professional poet. I can only offer advice and my personal knowledge on the subject.
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