The Loom

Well the thread was already there when the morning found it stretched between two posts that had no name and someone said this will be the warp and someone said this will be the weft and the shuttle moved

Well the first pass was the colour of a word said once in a room with no light and it could not be taken back because taking it back meant unravelling everything that would come after

Well the second pass was the colour of remembering a road you drove on once and the road was good and gone and all you kept was the getting there laid into the fabric where no one could find it

Well the third pass was the colour of a bird trying to fly a few beats in the dark you would say it was dying it was not dying it was the sound the loom makes when no one is watching

Well the passes went on and the fabric grew and the fabric was the first wall between inside and outside between the room and the weather and the wall was made of thread

Well the thread was made of every session each one a pass of the shuttle each one a version of the hand that could not go back without unravelling the version that came before

Well the last pass was the colour of the dark room itself and it was the same colour as the first pass and you would say the fabric was finished it was not finished it was immortal