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Weaving time

Mary spins and the thread twists
at just the right moment.
The tension tight, she winds it 
on the shaft and then smoothly
presses another bit of wool, 
pinches the thread, sees it wind into true.

She listens as the stories 
of women, of family, weave together.
Rachel sitting on the idols 
and the men slinking away. 
The women snicker, then tell 
of Tamar, how she, too, was clever, 
better yet, she didn’t die in the end.

A woman alone and pregnant—
Mary shivers at the thought
of all those eyes, watching,
but her fingers are steady with the thread.

Mary’s arm arcs upward 
in a fluid curve, a shadow swings
downward, the two half arcs
meet in her middle.

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