What is it that keeps us returning to the loom?
Could it be the song we play that fills the room?

The weaver sways side to side at the board.
The yarn moves back and forth on it’s own accord.

We thread each musical note.
Some from books, others we wrote.

Up the scale, then back down,
and sometimes, turning around.

Do-re-mi or 1-2-3
We stomp-beat-switch with our feet.
It’s a cadence, a rhythm, a melody.

Sometimes it’s high, and sometimes low,
Only the weaver knows how the song will grow.

At the end, with a stitch and a cut, the song might be over,
But the imprint is not.