In the loom of dreams,
threads hum with quiet thunder.
Colors drip from the sky,
pooling into shapes that see.
They do not blink
for they are not here to sleep,
but to remember
every shade of joy,
every bruise of sorrow.
Each iris holds a season,
each lash a whispered secret,
and when the storm passes,
the arc above the world
is not just light
it is a chorus of gazes,
watching us become
what we were meant to be.
Made with love and wools
