We are the weavers of children
Whether they are wading, treading, or drowning
Each child is reaching out
For lifelines to pull them from their semi-fluid perceptions,
Yet many find flimsy ribbons braided with Achilles tendons
That split, then disconnect buoys
As they struggle in turbulent effluent.
Sometimes suspension bridges splinter
And they hang mid-air over purgatorial precipices,
Bodies flailing and thrashing.
And so we come,
The weavers,
Bringing strong cordage and twine of seraphic gossamer
To silence their cries and give them hope.
And when we set to work,
The floundering souls reach out for lifelines.
For we know the secret.
We have only to pluck the hairs from atop our heads,
Begin intertwining them with gentle words of a peaceful future
And thus create:
Blankets to keep them cool on hot summer days
Or safety nets for acrophobic trapeze artists
With loving words we
Spin arks to race arid currents,
Or create buoyant suits that deflect each incoming wave,
But we must remember
To continue weaving at our numinous looms,
And make our fingers deft
To find places where weft meets warp
And make fibers of
Ethereal clouds to moisten parched radices.
When our eyes grow weary of patterns too subtle for children to see,
Or when aching backs and cramping forearms make for troublesome twining
Even when our hands become bloodied by sharp sutures from the unknowing
or the insane,
We must endure
We are the weavers,
Intertwining and intersecting,
Spinning fibrous cable that children cling to
That they will wrap round their waists
Before plunging into cavernous incarnations
To discover,
In the depths,
A reflection of the future
A reflection of themselves
A reflection
Of the peace weaver they can become.
Laurie Woodward 