What Remains, Still Becoming

Some pieces are built twice—once from the land, and again from memory. This loom carries both. Made by my hands from wood that once grew on ground I no longer stand on, it holds a quiet threshold: not empty, but waiting. This poem lives in that pause—the sacred inhale before thread meets frame, where loss becomes material and creation begins again.

My loom. Built by me, from wood from my land, my past. Rebuilt in a new city to begin again.

What Remains, Still Becoming

It stands in its own quiet, not empty—never empty—but waiting in that sacred way only something handmade can.

I built this.

Hands remembering the weight of each cut, the scent of sap and sun caught in grain, wood once rooted in land that held my name like a secret pressed into soil.

That land is gone now—folded into the past, a chapter closed with dirt still under my nails—and yet here it is, risen again in structure, in purpose, in this upright spine of memory.

This loom is not just a frame. It is a bridge.

Between what was held and what still insists on becoming.

An empty loom is a pulse paused, a spell not yet spoken aloud, a breath gathered deep in the body before it dares to move.

I stand before it knowing everything I have lost has not left me.

It has changed shape.

It waits in my hands, in the fibers I have yet to choose, in the tension I will set, and in the release I will allow.

There is reverence here—in the way wood still hums with a place I can no longer return to, in the way creation asks nothing but that I continue.

Soon, thread will cross thread, softness held in discipline, color rising like memory made visible.

And this loom—born from land that now lives behind me—will carry it forward.

Not as grief.

As a continuation.