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MFA @ecumfa ‘29
Julia Margaret Cameron Award 2024
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Women by women by @kathpace
49
Photos by @kathpace 
Her thin fingers, moving
  In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
  Wonderful things.
 
Many bright threads,
 From where I couldn’t see,
Were running through the harp-strings
  Rapidly,
 
And gold threads whistling
  Through my mother’s hand.
I saw the web grow,
 And the pattern expand.
 
She wove a child’s jacket,
 And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
  And wove another one.
 
She wove a red cloak
  So regal to see,

“She’s made it for a king’s son,”
 I said, “and not for me.”
 But I knew it was for me.
 
She wove a pair of breeches
  Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
  And a little cocked hat.
 
She wove a pair of mittens,
 She wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
  In the still, cold house.
 
She sang as she worked,
 And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
 And the thread never broke.
 And when I awoke,—
 
There sat my mother
  With the harp against her shoulder
Looking nineteen
  And not a day older,
 
A smile about her lips,
 And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
  Frozen dead.
 
And piled up beside her
  And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king’s son,
 Just my size. - Edna St. Vincent Millay
27
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