Born a hard seed
     I sprouted into a milky clump.
          Cotton boll picked,
               I was carded, warped, spun.

One amongst many, I arrived at the [          ]—
     wound, ready for the weaving.
          The weaver interlaced us tightly—
               his weft silken, glistening.

His [      ]’s needle strung and pierced, inoculated
     into our cloth-skins, the skeins of motifs.
          Such was the loom, such their tapestries.
               Unspooled, I roam the world now.

Now, I prefer my weaves gauzy.
     Now, I let the fabric breathe.

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