The Loom
Willie Mae Gill
1903 - 1995
She lived for cotton,
the growth of sons,
one daughter lame, a mother
ornery, mean.
She walked with coleus,
gloxinia, begonia stems,
rooting in a well-dug humus from
the woods. Sung hymns,
washed pots, forgave.
Left nothing undone.
Molted in summer's tomato-scent air,
in winter took wings
warped by textile's shuttle.
No searing hardship, no
humidity, feared.
Not any fabric
weaves on any loom.