This is the way to thread me

This is the way you
thread me while I'm in motion:
eye the eye of my needle and
will it to stop spinning
swirling passing by in a blur

Sing to it, if you will:
Slow down, my love! Slow
down! Watch me carefully
consider with perceivable pause
I slow I stir I where have you gone?

This is how I sleep: when
thread is slack and held by
nothing but gravity's pull
against the gleaming wooden
floor. Thread me! I whisper

to fingertips long resting. At
once I tire. I stop to admire
the all of me slender long
a curved space through which
I can view the rest of you.

Where is your thread now?
Look, I am still. I contemplate
the thrill of colors brightly chosen
looped through my lair and
pulling me guiding me trusting

my sharp point to meet the
rough pad of a waiting fingertip
when I emerge from the other
side. One cannot begin to imagine
the beauty of tapestries I've made.