by Hazem Tagiuri

People speak of wordsmiths,
as if they hammer text into shape;
smelting down clunky prose,
recasting from white-hot ink.

Less is said of wordweavers,
threading rich fabrics of place, time;
who stitch characters together,
fine-needling their traits.

Many, prideful in their handiwork,
leave it to be picked apart,
unravelled by the envious.
The best hide their seams.