A sweet dawn
Holding creation
By your palms.
Silk spills
Tween my legs,
Spinning down
Your spool.
Being recreated,
From thread and wheel.
Infringing upon what was
Once frayed and splintered
ends and beginnings.
Comes forth now,
As a seamless
Fabric of love.
What may it mean
To honor a tool?
To see ones utility
And become avail to
Your own mechanics,
Through partnership.
This I label a priceless labor.
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