I pass the cages quietly
A business trip: food? water?
Fill a bowl and close a door.
My eyes rest lightly, then linger.
A weave of ferrets lies upon a shelf,
The Master Weaver gestures invisibly
to me to be still.
 
A weave of ferrets, fur and feet,
Noses, a belly, a back, many toes.
Who is which? and why? and how?
The Weaver speaks to me in mysteries.
 
There is no answer to a ferret,
And fewer answers when they weave.
Independent, bouncing weasels ...
Nippers and dancers and bag ladies, too,
Begging, fighting, vying for a game ...
 
All, all now loomed by love
Warp of warmth and woof of peace.
Beyond words and knowing,
The Master Weaver bids me rest
Simply and wholly in that which is.
[Posted in FML issue 1813]