Winter's Weaving

A white blanket is sewn overhead.
Above thirsting trees
      The seams are stitched; the great beast fed.
It grows to maturity
      With each pass of thread.
The needle halts its work
      As townsfolk head off to bed.

The blanket is seamlessly undone.
The sky slowly parts
      By a sleepy hello from blazing Sun.
Children break the pattern
      With an aimless plan and a useless run.
But one looks up for the weaver
      Only to find that there is none.

A lone thread floats onto the child's face.
(For a vacant wind blows)
      It runs across his cheek, soft as lace.
Soon the course is run
      And of the thread there is no trace.
A lone tear falls over the path
      And joins as a string: in its rightful place.