Weaver

I know not how to sew a dress
Nor mend a net, Nor knit a shawl.
What I know is how to weave;
I’ll weave us fields of beauty
With adventures great and small.

The reds and gold are bright and bold;
A thousand crimson roses.
Blues and greens are finer things;
The streams and skies and mosses.

Of amaranth and lavender,
I’ve woven you a gown.
Frail as hope and strong as truth,
In which to dance upon the downs.

My fingers fly, but never snag,
These wispy twilight dreamings.
Bare-back rides and moon-pulled tides
Voices echo in the vales, adrift in sunlight streaming.