The woman was a weaver;
I didn’t know her name.
But then at only 5 years old,
The fascination came.
She sat up straight and sturdy,
The bench just right to reach.
And taking shuttle back and forth,
Her hand began to teach.
I know she pressed the treadles
And showed me cloth that grew.
And with a lesson now forgot,
She made a weaver too!
The woman was a weaver;
I didn’t know her name.
But many years a weaver now,
I thank her all the same!
—
My response to Kim’s Artisan prompt at
dVerse.
Mystical Strings 
Good for you to become a weaver yourself ~
Love the cadence of your verses Crystal ~
A weaver inhabits an alien landscape for those of us who shop at Walmart, searching for imported bargain clothing. How wonderful you continue with the tradition–like story tellers passing on the oral tradition.
She showed you how the cloth grew, that’s beautiful. And what a practical thing to learn so young. I wish I’d learned a craft as a young person. You have a very valuable art, (in writing too).
How wonderful. Craftsmanship passed on down. Love this.
It reminds me that the many things I know how to do are because someone taught me, but I don’t remember actually being taught.
Hello Crystal, thanks for joining us with your delightful poem. As I read it I heard it as a song. I love that you have an early memory of an unnamed weaver, who made such an impression on you. The rhythm is perfect for weaving, the description of the weaver too.
Beautiful rhythm and rhymes! ❤ And I believe the weaver smiles proudly. 🙂
The poem is weaved in itself…good one.
LOVE it! Especially the cloth that grew.
Weave on sister.