Destiny

I had envisioned dust,
a layer of age to everything.
Not dampness, walls wiped down
with the same stagnant water
that pooled on the floor;
a scent of mildew hovering
about the unmoving air.
Expectations are often
pleasantly dismantled.
The three of them don't
notice as they go about
another day's work. I step in,
fascinated at how the cotton
thread is spun out, drawn to
a seemingly random length as
it is worked into the weave,
then snipped with a sudden,
silent working of such heavy
shears that I forget myself.
Forget my role as petitioner,
stepping back into the voyeur I
have always been in the past,
one hand idly stroking the slick
varnished frame of the loom,
lost in the quiet beauty,
tongue brushing the salty remnants
of a single tear along my lips,
When you see the whole of the
pattern, the thought of making
a snarl or forcing a reworking of
even the least piece seems like
nothing so much as heresy.