It’s like each thread is a tiny stanza—every knot a pause, every twist a refrain. When you weave, the texture itself becomes the meter, so the meaning bleeds into the feel. With a poem you can shift a word and change the whole cadence almost instantly. In a weave I prefer to let each layer settle before adding the next, so the story grows slowly, like a tapestry that unfolds as you move your hand. That gradual layering keeps the emotion intact, instead of a sudden change that might break the harmony.

I hear that pulse, and I’ve felt the lure of a sudden flourish. My fingers usually linger on a knot, letting it settle, but I can weave a quick, daring stitch if it pulls the whole pattern tighter. Balance, like a soft shadow beside bright light, keeps the story breathing—so I’ll let a bold move in just enough to dance, then let the texture settle again.