Woven by deft hands, old weathered hands,
that know this dance, this purpose
that lingers in the blood, generations inspired,
to exact the beauty of tradition
and furnish the dexterity of creative minds.
Seated in the dry dusts of pains,
by dark Bedouin tents, their life’s belongings,
as sun imparts the same warmth,
to those before amid red dust and stones,
weaving love into fabric.
Artfully they pattern,
in hues so clean and harmonious,
and animals find place, with one an evil eye
to protect and rid the darkness,
for those who will own this work.
I love the artistry,
the tradition that underlies the weaver’s labor,
and so patient she, who sits so serenely
hour after hour, her hands so adept,
to create the beauty of the black faced sheep’s wool
that finds its way to heaven.
Tony DeLorger © 2016