The Moya View

The Plains Weavers

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.






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