Penelope sits at her loom,

Unraveling at night

   what she has woven by day.

Darkness fills the room,

As she collects the threads

   which keep her suitors at bay.

Perpetually doing

   but never quite done,

That is her art of delay.

Ever she awaits the return

   of her true one—

Unraveling at night

   what she has woven by day.

 

Penelope may tell her suitors lies,

Unraveling at night

   what she has woven by day;

But she is far more guiling

   than she is wise,

And they will hear but what they hope she will say.

Her words are paper

   she folds into shapes

To persuade her suitors she may wish to stay,

But that is a maze from which

   only she escapes,

Unraveling at night

   what she has woven by day.

 

 

Winter 2007