Sunday, November 21, 2010

The Weaver

Near the coursing path of the Danube
Where it would soon become confluence
Passing through Scythia
She spent days searching
Collected stones upon the shore
Where the river entered
Joining waters with the Black Sea
For her arts, she created mosaics
Of incredible beauty
In an era when being unmarried
Meant little social worth
She wove stories
Alone
She spun yarn
And blew glass
She made a home
She read tomes
Without a family
No children, no man
A few animals
No one close
Her days were made
More than endurable
Her life was wrought
A work wrung
Despite being alone
By the works of her hands
And the stories of her tongue
Told by the works
She created for none
But her own eyes
For none but her being
Alone she had worth
Beyond any means
Of measure