The Weaver

Turquoise and red rubies

And Sand painting movies

Gnarled hands that move effortlessly

To weave the coat to cover me

Strands wound up so nice and tight

Streaks of grey on hair of night

Conch belt of shiny silver

Reflecting light in tiny slivers

Who is this mysterious woman?

Who’s silent movie is unknown and

Yet she is really here, a living deity

Cause dear, I guess someone had to be

Children to take care of

Sheep who needed shearing

Men from war in raging anger

Taking it out upon her

Holding on just a little longer

The smell of baking bread

Listen to what I said

For she is more than human

A deity squaw it’s true and

Immortals guide her ways

All throughout her days

Broken down truck, lines of laundry

Never had much, that I see clearly

But her world was rich intently

Her loving hands so gently

Weaving strands of yarn

Long nights by firelight mending clothes

Socks for her bright babies toes

Shirts, pants and blankets

Nothing fancy just add some pockets

And the smell of baking bread

Listen to what I said

For she is more than human

A deity squaw it’s true and

Immortals guide her ways

All throughout her days

Does she sleep?

Does she eat?

Does she even dream?

Of prairies filled with grain

A place to lay her head

And listen to the rain

And the smell of baking bread

Listen to what I said

For she is more than human

A deity squaw it’s true and

Immortals guide her ways

All throughout her days