Think of the weaver bent over the loom
in a posture of appeasement, though it is not.
He hears the beyond in him, an older voice.
Without pause or trembling, his winged
hands thread the briefer weft of cerise,
silver, through warp taut on its frame.
Though he does not pause, think of the rain
he doesn’t miss, pounding on the roof,
branches of the jacaranda scratching
the windowpane like a cat impatient
to be let in. Think how they learn
to wait, as all things must,
while the foliage thickens, until a hare
finds itself startled by a star or the deer
occasionally leaping. In a quiet opening,
a hunt is taking shape. Though he doesn’t
know where each turning may lead,
he adds lilies, a money like a go-between
among the Banyan’s sky-roots, a peacock
unhooking its nerve. Think how he breathes
into them, into each knot reworked,
each new loop that shows a little more
of itself; and this archer, he sends
into the world to become an arrow.
When all the birds fly up at once
in the tapestry’s very centre,
think of the barely disturbed tree.