The Huipil

I don’t hold with those

who think that we’re the Chosen People

but the joy of waking by your side

has almost made me a believer.

Small miracles are woven

from quiet moments such as this,

each colored strand  locked in place

as the loom moves on.

 

When you lay me in

my plain pine box,

don’t dress me in

my Sabbath best

but in the huipil

hanging on the wall

like Joseph’s coat

of many colors.

 

(originally published in South Townsville Micropoetry Journal)

 

weaving

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