The warp, the weaver laid, of common stuff.
The weft, of uncommon -
uncommon to the weaver.
The shuttle pulled secrets
through the cloth
with the grace of a woman carrying a bundle on her head.
The cloth was hawked by that woman or another
on an otherwise paradise beach
Sarong? Sarong? Sarong?
After a short life tossed on and off
the cloth was laid
away
its bright pattern
somewhat stained,
its secrets as kept
as the weaver.
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