The Weaver

She made tapestries
by night
in the tight
space between shadows....

As if the sky were a canvas
all sadness
yet poking through tiny squares
the silver threads
of a galaxy.

By day
her way
is soft dawn rising
and the vertical loom
holds blushing suspense
and a party on the hill
known as daybreak.

By dusk
the husk
of night
is her masterpiece.
The moments before dark
an interlocking lull
of memory in color
So that we shall not forget
her mirror
in the morning tide.