She sat in the corner,
Ancient fingers curled around the basket.
Bony hands working tenderly.
Scratchy wood being weaved in and out,
Faint sunlight flowing through the window,
Strands of time slipping idly by.
Bumps of wood against her skin,
The chair rocking back and forth.
Aged eyes still bright with life,
The life of a basket weaver.
Almost finished.
The last wooden strand put in place,
The green stain meticulously applied,
The same green as the woman's eyes.
Her skin, the color of wood,
A life completed.
A cloud passes by, covering the sun.
The weaver's work is done.
The cloud moves.
Sunlight filters through,
Landing on the delicate basket.
It sits in her lap,
Her eyes closed,
Her soul rests in the basket.
This was part of an assignment where we had to write a poem based on an object that the teacher brought in. I chose a striped green basket. The way I interpreted this poem as I wrote it is that the basket is the woman's life, and the strands of wood are her experiences, all being woven together to make a masterpiece. When the basket is completed, so is her life complete, and so she passes away. It is often said that we are the sum of our experiences.