The Weavers

oh yes,
it was a dance -
of weavers spinning a web,
with the turn of the seasons,
the pull of the moon,
the song of the night,
the patterns of the day,
the dreams of the stars, and
the sowing and harvests
of entangled hearts;
but wait,
something's amiss now,
things seem to have changed,
the warp and the weft
no longer rest in the game;
threads have become knots
that cannot be undone,
but for a snip here and there,
the hearts still beat while they're lost,
but can never be found.