I open my hands and lift them gently

wanting to return my fingers 
to those long woolen memories
held in her castaway skirts.

 Careful to weave myself 
into those tightly woven fabrics.
Now carelessly strewn 
in  scattered drifts upon a couch
that she curls herself into.

Alone, I stand there watching
her sitting so quietly.
Gone into a woman’s world.
As though re-weaving all those 
secret memories of a young girl
now a woman.

 Opening
Sometimes
slowly … before me.
thinking in her minds eye
that finally this man be the man …
that this man may nearly be ready.
Knowing that she has reached and cut her pattern
as far as she can go.

 Today, I see a simple rug
so difficult in the making.
I see her seeking the time,
to gather the final strands.

 Needing only the final pattern.

                    ©   Herb Senft.