She waits. Her hands,
weaving, unweaving.

Lovers' entreaties
curling her ears.

The suitors yearn for skin on skin.
Not a single one gets in.

Still her fingers,
working, unworking.

Waiting for her husband,
the twenty year journeyman.

The lovers renew their pleas.
"Just you wait," she

tells her hands,
fingers weaving, unweaving.

"****** and Wisdom
will settle the score."

Soon, all weaving ended.
Her husband's arrows
darkened the air.

The suitors died for skin on skin.
Not a single one got in.