I hold that piece of cloth
pressed against my nose,
eyes closed,
waiting to hear your voice again
and think that somehow
I should still smell you on it.
Every turn and weave of thread
holds your name to mine.
Through our blood
a secret story in the pattern.
Treadles push at the corners of me,
forcing the warp to bend.
Prismatic canyons and quiet roads
appear from your brittle hands
to navigate the roads of us.
I won’t let go of you, though.
They can’t make me.
Even though I only knew your frayed edges,
the silent turn of the wheel’s last length,
you are young again
and new
and held softly in love’s arms.
And it is all I dream for you.
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