Last week I walked past a weaver. She asked me if I had written a poem that she had stuck in her shop window.
I read it. I was flattered she thought I had written such a good poem. I said No I hadn’t, but I would try to find out who wrote it. Did you?
Every day I bear witness
to some inevitable and inconspicuous unravelling.
In the quiet time of my morning vigil
I lovingly and relentlessly comb out
the strands of old, unnecessary past-times,
thanking them for the lessons,
letting them know it is time now
for them to rest.
This intimate gathering of what
no longer needs to be believed,
this careful placing down,
day after day,
allows them to be woven
into the fine mesh of
For, without them, I would not
have this extraordinary tapestry,
this story to tell, this poem to write.
I witness an empty space,
full of possibilities.