Tayve Neese

For the Weavers

Fibers of flax, skeins of fleece,
lanolin, warm and rising.
May your fingers, contemplative,

move by pure rote.
Their subtle motions, your solace,
source of stitch.

Slight—this is how the hand
of God moved, lost in repetition,
threads of flesh

passed over knuckles and tips—
the female hand, the male hand
in slow unison.

Between them, web
of vein and ligament,
helix spiraled lace.