Weaver of Silent Songs

She weaves the space between the notes,

The silence where the music sleeps,

The unplayed chords in people's throats,

The promises the memory keeps.

Her loom is made of moonbeam threads,

Her shuttle's made of morning hush,

She weaves what never has been said,

When hearts are too afraid to rush.

Each tapestry tells silent tales,

Of love that never found its voice,

Of ships that never raised their sails,

Of never-made, momentous choice.

The colors? Oh, they have no names

Like sunset's afterglow they blend,

The dying of the candle flames,

Beginning that becomes the end.

Some call her work the art of loss,

The museum of might-have-been,

But they don't understand the cost,

Nor all the beauty she's seen.

For in the spaces she creates,

The music finds its truest home,

Between what love anticipates,

And what eventually will come.

A soldier came one winter's night,

His eyes held battles he couldn't share,

She wove for him a cloak of light,

From all the prayers he'd whispered there.

A mother came at spring's first breath,

Whose child had never learned to speak,

She wove a lullaby from death,

And comfort for the future weak.

Her work is never sold or bought,

No currency could pay its price,

It's found in lessons life has taught,

And in unsacrificed sacrifice.

So if you hear a silent song,

Or feel a music in the air,

Know that where silence does belong,

The weaver's been working there.

For all the things we leave unsaid,

The love we feel but don't express,

Becomes a fabric thread by thread,

In her quiet workshop's address.