A densely plotted graph of peaceless wool is sewn

across a plane and pinned to dry on tenterhooks.

The air is woven well, a chart of knotted winds

ensnares a bowing gum and rags of oily cloud

are loops of thread from reels pedalled bare.

Precisely angled rain is uniformly stitched

by grim intent with flashy silver needlework.

The weaver takes the trails of the woven strands

and tethers up the skies and finespun atmosphere

to sharpen doubled lines, refine the captured mess.

Beware the ill equation mapped within this frame

of Summer hell the frightened weaver gathers in.