Weaver’s Lament

I sit once more at weaver’s table,
the basin full of reed.
Our ancient dance now commences,
our trade now to expose.

First I pull the ribs,
their width reveals their fate
to place them down upon my table top.
I size them as I go,
the long ones spanning across my lap,
short ones passing through them so.
I work to get them close together.
Tightly woven bases make for stronger baskets
and when the reeds are even spaced,
and straight aligned by critics eye,
I finally come now to the place
to lay down  the foundation row.

Into the water, my infant work,
to recharge, and lessen bending blows.
To soak in flexibility, for next
the real work starts.

I place the base upon the form
and start to bend the ribs
in  alternating patterns
strapped down to the block,
the weavers now to receive.
I pry them into place using techniques,
as old as time itself,
yet that does not stop the ache I feel
rushing in to joints old beyond their time
from many years of working reed.
I clip the ends of the first weaver
so that it will stay where I have asked,
and bend the remaining ribs
down across the form to be secured
in their final formation.

The second weaver holds down,
the remaining ribs in place,
and allows the basket to take her shape.

The third weaver goes around next
and lays upon the second
in the pattern of the first.

From here the pattern repeats,
with tightness becoming my mantra.
Round my work I go,
on this carousel stained
with the marks of use,
prying with my fingers sore
to make the weavers do as told.
I close my eyes and flex my digits,
to ease the pain caused
by abuse and hardened time.

As the weavers build,
my offspring forms a life of its own,
it’s ultimate purpose decided
by how far it grows.
I remove it from the mold,
from here it must find its own accord.
I place a layer, pack it tight,
place a layer, pack it tight
repeating my mantra as my creation builds,
and let the work decide it’s fate.

The basket rises to its logical assent,
and it is time to finish off
my awkward child.
I bind the top with jute and twine
and pull tight the crown to finish my work.
I pull and prod to get things right,
knowing that things at this point are out of my hands,
not that I ever had control to begin with.
I leave the details to the nature of my child,
it’s final shape it’s own accord.