Night Before Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas,
And the scarves were not made.
The threads were all tangled, the cookies delayed.
The stocking weren't hung, the pantry was bare.
The poor weary Weaver, was tearing her hair.
Cones of plied cotton, tipped over in streams.
Visions of Log Cabins, had turned into dreams.
When what to her wondering eyes should appear,
But a bus full of weavers with all of their gear.
They went straight to work with just a few mutters,
Sorting and warping and brandishing cutters.
The patterns emerged from all of the clutter,
Like magic the fabrics arranged in a flutter.
Log Cabins, hounds Tooth, Over Shot & Plaids
Each scarf was a beauty-even the salvages.
Her house how it twinkled, her scarves how they glowed.
The cookies were baking, the stockings were sewed.
Their work was all done, so they folded their frames,
And packed up their shuttles, without giving their names.
They boarded the bus, and checked the next address.
More scarves to be made, another weaver in distress.
She heard one voice echo, as they drove out of sight,
Happy weaving to all and to all a good night!
Author Unknown re-worded for weavers by KT Easter