Friday, July 18, 2008

the weaving

What is that sound? I said.

It is the wind, she replied

in a voice gentle as a meadow,

the sound of

stories partly told,

of love letters unanswered,

of cries heard and unheard,

of the earth calling her children

to her so their ribs may

be strewn long and moss-covered

across her body.

Tell me a story, I said.

You are a story, she replied.

You are the weaver and the woven,

a child of the dawn, the mystery

and the answer. You are my story,

and I am your dreaming. Without you,

I would not be. Without me, you

would never have been told.

What is that sound? I said.

Rachel Westfall
July 18, 2008

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