The Warm Weaver
Hola, I saw her today with a smile, so sweet and fresh
like the milk she nourished me. She sat, on the back
porch, weaving her passion, creating a web of caress,
for this young heart---the black and white pic of a duck.
I sat, not far, watching her eager hands with patience
of a saint, as she stitched the last image, of her mind;
sometimes, she threw looks at me, perhaps her conscience
bothered her, for letting me, me alone, pass the time.
‘Cos for her, occasional strong wind howls that bother
is her savoring concern, not wanting this young heart
to live and be clothed by its un-gentleness, but rather
be warmed by a mantle of love---her passion, her art.
Hola, I saw her today with a smile, so sweet and fresh
like the milk she nourished me, from her own breasts.
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