Special Day                                                                                                    

On that special day, sat cross legged
upon a wooden milking stool,
watching the three sisters at work.
Mixing the coloured liquid phials.
Weaving the sticky mucus strands
into the tunics that we wear.

One sister measuring the length.
Another cutting short the thread.
While the third never stops her weave.
Old arthritic hands, half hidden,
twisted and reddened by the strands
that compel her knotted fingers.

Yet, Suddenly they pause and snag
the fine thread into fatal flaws.
Is that a smile lighting her face?
On that special day, sat cross legged
upon a wooden milking stool,
watching the three sisters at work.