It wasn't the weaving
She'd miss so much
As the unweaving
The unpatterning.
Long night hours
The light of a candle
Held by a maid
(Later hung
Her pale legs kicking)
If the sly king
Had drowned at sea
She'd have learned
To unspin wool
Unshear sheep
Unstring minutes
Hoping another Penelope
Might string them again
String them better.
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