In the heart of the Weaver’s hand

I saw pulses of stately intellect

By a string of balance convulsed

Like a colony of cells her claws

Clumped round puzzles of yarns

In twists and riggles tunes made by

 Those steady fingers of hands

In the heart of the Weaver’s hand

Uphills made low not a cause christened

Unattainable but steady sprinkles of

Wit and unfainting resilience and zest

In the heart of the Weaver’s hand

A million yards of yarns coiled

Into a set of gloves as home.