Strange, but there was a space between the feeling I had when inspiration burned and my physical body. If only the two could walk together they would touch the Earth gently like dew on parched skinks tongue. The memory of a time they were united calls to me with whisperings of potential, but my fingers are unsure of the precise stitch to use to reweave the frayed umbilical threads. Still, I begin like a spider to work my web for catching a future of rainbow hue, trusting that sustenance will follow my hours at the loom. Sometimes cramps, discomfort, settle in my bones. I rise, stretch, return to my work. Only I see the loom and it's fabric emerging but others see a subtle change in me and wonder at it's source. For though we are all weaving, each of us use different tools and materials. Wood, bone, others blood, barbed wire, paper money, silk in the raw, river washed stones, garlands of flowers, concrete, glass, the wind, sound, fur, hair, silver, wolves claws, spirit, waves, negativity, pain, love, tears of salt, peace..........
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