The weavers of the plains are tireless workers
poor but honest, always trusting the generosity
of an unlocked door to let in a husband working
nights at the print and design shop, finishing that
last small sign full of eclairs glazed with the most deliciously appealing serif font for the new
French bakery off of main and twenty-third
or the plumber who heard about that
slow running toilet on the second floor
who leaves the bill neatly near the vanity
knowing the check will come with
the Wednesday amble and update chat
or the mechanic who can be trusted with the
keys and a blank check on the front seat
of that old blue Ford that is leaking green.
The weaver mother with seven children,
threads pieces for their school newspaper,
spins fine clear aqua yarn showing other kids
how to swim, substitute teaches so that she
can bind their minds into a chalkboard panel
of good knowledge, even drives the school bus
if that is what the thread requires to be strong.
The weaver farmer sees the Nebraska soil
is thready, dry, hard to till, harder
to water, that crops can’t be harvested
without the abundant help of others.
In it they see a tapestry,
the people it’s colors
everything needing a tight loom
for it to work, survive and thrive
and bind forever together.
So, they are intentionally local knowing
machine yarn eventually unravels,
that good thread can’t be found online,
and that the best panels in the tapestry
are the ones that come from common life.
