I am the Weaver.
Every morning, as the sun peeks over the horizon,
I am busy at my loom.
First comes the tapestry for sunrise,
all gilded threads and soft colors
woven from the wool of sleepy, wispy clouds.
Then comes daytime,
an embroidery with different shades of blue,
bordered by brisk winds and little breezes.
Sunset is easy,
a blend of reds and oranges
on silk dip-dyed with the reflections
of light on water.
But night —
oh, night is a different story.
You see, I have been the Weaver
for a very long time.
I have only ever made one quilt
for the night sky.
I weave starlight in crazy cross-stitch patterns
over the oceans and mountain ranges.
My loom ensnares the moonlight
and people look on in awe.
Now, I have to weave many fabrics.
In the open spaces, I can keep
my embroidery of stars.
But over the cities —
a heavy, black blanket, every time.
Sometimes I can add gradients of grey
or bits and pieces of purple.
But it is always ugly, like a bruise.
It astounds me that the people down below
have chosen this, that they are willing
to have this ugly blanket thrown over them
in exchange for keeping all their bright little lamps.
What good do the lamps do them,
when they would have far more light
if they could see the stars? The moon?
Don’t they miss them?
It is not my job to question the way the sky changes.
I only weave its moods,
making sure it always looks the way it should.
But this new blanket makes me sad.
I wish I could fold up one of my starry quilts,
with its shimmering embroidery and gorgeous patterns,
and take it down to the people below.
I wish I could hold it out to them,
let them compare it to their bruise-blanket,
urge them to put out their lamps.
But I am the weaver — and if I do not weave,
the sky will fall.
I cannot leave my loom to chase after people
who are foolish enough to fall in love with lamps.
All I can do is weave, and hope.
Hope that someday, they will have enough sense
to put out their lights and look up at the night sky.
Hi Steemians! I hope you enjoyed the poem. :) The picture at the beginning is provided by Pixabay. This poem was actually a precursor to one of my first posts here, "What happened to the stars?" I love the stars, and nighttime (maybe you guessed from my username?), but I've been living somewhere where I can't see the stars for the last few years... I miss them, and it's been showing up in different ways when I write.
But I'm curious about this Weaver character! She obligingly showed up for this poem, but I don't know much about her yet. Maybe she'll get a short story sometime soon... I'm eager to see what she could do if she left her loom.
