From formlessness, form—

a shape the girl coaxes into her lap 
from the mass that would like to swallow 
her whole or take her unborn child from
her womb. Turning the shadow around 
and around she gives it back its name 
until it sees itself and shrieks 
into the floorboards. 
                                              Warp to weft,
a threading or unthreading: whatever
is necessary to preserve the line
from which we come. Above the hills,
the ancestors watch from their caves.
Patience, the wind says. Water
counsels: stones are nothing 
in your path. 
                            The girl knows 
one stitch must follow another. 
She is not powerful like the Fates
but she can see gold in straw. 
She can follow a line to what looks
like its conclusion, and find another 
door leading away from that room.
 

(after Rebecca Solnit)