After The Robbery Poem by Gloria Kim

A world of things I weave within my home,
a tapestry of comforts and delights,
a private interweaving of the outside
coming in, the inside
going out,
some strands long in rhythm long in time,
others fleet in puckish charm and change.
All is delight, the long and short of it,
living strings of memory and now
woven in and out in tenderness.

But someone strange has broken in,
has trampled barged burgled.
There is a wound - palpable holes
gouged from living fabric
where once were things now gone.

It is not the things, I cry, not the things at all!
It is the woven and the weaving, the old becoming new,
threads becoming pathways
moored in a tender loom softly twining
past to now to morrow.

Sure as sure repairs are underway -
things, symbols, thoughts reworked,
this is life. And yet,
how to ease the aching tear where, threads undone,
was once beginning then becoming-something too?

Recoil. Reweave.
I cannot help but mourn the loss.