For day three, to write about a country walk, or something nice
The blossoms unfold
Until the spring rain draws them
For day four it was to write from the point of view of someone.
I spend my days weaving,
gathering together the tresses.
singing off the loneliness with no one
to share in the beauty of my tapestries.
Of course they are all one
colour, sublime golden hues.
But even gold is boring,
if all you do is weave your long hair,
make little silky corn dolls, that
fall apart in my dove white hands.
I sit and sing by my window,
a sweet little perch,
as I darn the holes in my clothes
with my golden haired sewing thread.
It is boring, weaving all day,
with no one to hear my singing voice.
But I weather it on,
weaving scenes of children and firesides,
of grubby hearths and empty bellies.
If Mother Gothel does not come tonight,
I set my deft fingers to weave a noose
and not a rope for her to climb.