I move at the mercy of the winds and the moon,
Cycling without volition,
Yearning for the nameless,
Weaving blindly in a web
obscured by cobwebs,
Sensing a rhythm that falters, resumes, shifts under my feet.
Random strands glisten in sunlight,
evanesce in moonlight,
offering glimpses of pattern.
Who weaves?
Child? Mother? Crone?
To what purpose?
I long for vision.

But the weaving of the tapestry goes on
in faith and love.