we sit at a loom loaded with stained yarn
we never intended to dye these colors
our feet drum out a rhythmic pattern
woven with force, at times soft and gentle
and others wrathful and ashamed

passed down or manufactured it still
makes a tapestry, each fiber a human
every run, a choice leading to the next.
sometimes it is beautiful and mesmerizing
and others it’s chaos, piles of snags

a mountain or molehill we don’t back pedal
to flatten, but trudge on, our feet through mud.
I wish beyond hope the end product showed
greater beauty than our faults, however
piece must be perfect to be considered a
masterpiece

our loom is never finished, constantly weaving
colors run out and textures change but no one
will ever hold it up to the light to look for holes
they just expect you to improve the longer you
weave