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  • I hear the rhythmic swish and shuttle of a weaving beam
    moted reams of light lead me to the warp and weft
    of where the pattern grows
    You weave a textured cloth of brocaded days and rich rememberings

    You slowly glass-grind precious pigments to a saturated hue
    Gesso ground the finest fibered flax
    Layer and glaze, layer and glaze
    layer and glaze the glare of days

    You restore my ravelled edges
    gild and burnish my dulled and tarnished spirit

    I am born anew
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