The Weavers

Poem by Colleen Anderson

one would think when they were young

they would have formed a band

and they did, the trio always sounding

incomplete except for rare harmonizations

the endings abrupt and so very sad 

people left weeping, never to return

I

Clotho wouldn’t have stayed long anyways

off to start something from scratch 

then losing interest along the way

like the sun she returns

to painting new canvases

all moon phases, its Janus faces

the seasons, a varietal palette 

the blush of a first kiss

her fingers love shaping clay 

yet unattended it flies apart on the wheel 

and half-shaped sentinels line the studio 

like some Promethean castoffs

the seeds she plants are full

of seasonal potential and mystery

waiting, she hums, then goes to watch the fawns—

or gazes at a baby’s yawning mouth

the first taste of its new world

on lazy days she and Hermes sip wine

roll dice and bet who will add another letter

to the alphabet, take a form to shape

their raucous laughter bringing scowls

from the older sisters

Clotho is drawn to wool and linen

designing bespoke clothes with ruffles

ruches and torn twists, buttons or spangles 

adorning her creations, gathering dust 

as they wait for completion

she is the shaper and sings of what is

for now, this century, it is enough to spin

raw fibers from her distaff to the spindle

deciding people’s strands with loving care

breathing in beginnings, she dyes the yarn

then passes it to her sister

II

Lachesis shakes her head, indulges 

her sister’s inclination toward failing

to carry through, falling in and out of love

more often than it rains

her days start slow—mesmerized by minutiae 

she counts her steps, her breath, her beating heart

the minutes as the clock hand moves

or the numerous grains of sand trickling

through the hourglass

if anyone misses the band, it is she

the writer, working out the sweet middle 

of every song, lingering over the center

of each novel, especially romances

where complexities of lives are spun out

to relax, she watches Judge Judy

reads law texts, determining if she too can solve

the conflicts, how many ways to run afoul

in their garden Lachesis doesn’t mind

nurturing plants, pulling weeds and hoeing

it is, after all, part of the planning

once fruits and vegetables indicate sure growth

she is attracted to possibilities

at the market, she is caught up in the here and now

conversations rising like Icarus’ son

and the weighing of produce 

though she often tries to balance all the scales

while Hermes and Clotho gamble

it is Lachesis who factors odds of winning

or living to ripe old age

she loves it all—the tumble of dice

moonlighting in casinos, where the wheel always turns

she’ll fan out cards, offer people to pick but one—

at crossroads she lingers, watching 

which path a person is destined to choose

Lachesis wants to try architecture

planning grand palaces

simple city neighborhoods

starting with the mosaics 

that would line gently curving streets

she is the disposer of lots, and sings of what will be

it is the measure of the lives she takes

feeling the texture of the yarn

weaving warp and weft 

a cornucopia of colors 

yet once the pattern is set 

she too loses interest 

III

Atropos never minds that her younger siblings

rarely finish what they start

they’ve done the hard work

all she does is reap the harvest 

she rescues cakes left to burn

bathtubs overfilling, and feeds untended chickens 

to her a job well done is one completed

keeper of the laws, she ensures no one 

forgets what came before

once Lachesis decides one’s fate 

Atropos is there to bury the bodies

do the job that no one wants

she is proud of her labors at Pompeii

not just shearing all life strands within an instant

but preserving them, a testament to their deaths—

she has attended the ending of every civilization

remembers all who went before, guiding them beyond

the sun’s departure, she witnesses

as well as the moon fleeing from the day—

of the three it is she who has travelled farthest

journeying through the galaxy to view

stars collapsing in on themselves

or meteor collisions blowing apart like dandelions

in quieter times, she enjoys reading

once she has the story’s gist, skims to the end

except when freelancing as editor

where her pen leaves a red scourge

slashing superfluous words 

from printed pages

the others have tried hundreds of hobbies

but Atropos chooses carefully

thinks she’d like to sell real estate

or be a stockbroker closing on the deal 

she is the inevitable and sings of what was

she finishes every textile

or garment started, adding hems

and fringes on the lives that went before

embroidering and embellishment are the final touches

that makes each piece unique

she knows that one day

she will cut all threads

the last being hers