The Weaver

I hold a silk shawl in my hands
a weightless cloud, billowing
against my breath, if I let it go
it would simply fly away

old silk, its white
yellowed like elephant bones, an eight year old
girl wove it, her hands were swift, skilled

oh and her eyes,
dark and knowing in her yellow face,
full with life, shining, and her braids
fell to the backs of her knees, she was loved

spoiled, a real
whirlwind, you only managed
to weave three shawls, of the finest silk

your palms became too rough, too clumsy,
by the time you were just about ten
and your hands had grown accustomed to heavy work

two shawls were sold
with the third
you covered your head on your wedding day

that is all that is left
your life's witness
short, hungry
this yellowed spiderweb