In the Weft of Words

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Writing a poem is like weaving with pandan leaves—
each strand, rough beneath my fingertips,
must be handled gently, folding into the shape
of something fragile, something firm. The leaves
come in red, yellow, blue, and purple, the colors
of my thoughts, sharp like a warning, soft like comfort.
They pull from somewhere deep, like memories,
like desires, coiled and waiting. At first,
it’s a mess—strands out of place, torn edges,
like a half-woven basket that sags in the middle.
My hands ache, sweat running down my wrist
as I pull the next thread, the next word,
hoping the pattern will come together.
I try again, and again, until the leaves bend
under the weight of my desire to make them right.

I twist the words as I twist the leaves—
tighter now, each motion deliberate,
my fingers aching, blood pounding in my palms.
Yellow slips next to blue, a tender balance
I cannot yet explain, but the rhythm is starting,
like the pulse of a heart that beats in the dark.
Some parts break—shards of thought spill out,
but then, like magic, others fit, like pieces
of a puzzle I didn’t know existed.
In this moment of quiet, when the weave takes shape,
there’s a rush of recognition. This is what it is—
not perfection, but something truer: a pattern
that emerges, and in its imperfection, becomes whole.

Writing the poem is the same as weaving leaves—
one step, one twist at a time, pulling through the effort
until something begins to take form,
something that might be beautiful if I wait long enough.
The sweat clings to my neck, the rawness of failure
lingering like dust on the air. But I press on—
the discomfort means I’m close. When it’s done,
the final piece rests in my hands—smooth,
a balance of color and space, its form
an anchor. It offers no comfort, yet it soothes.
The words are weightless, but they hold.
The structure that seemed fragile now supports me,
like the knowing glance of someone who sees
all the parts of you and loves them still.

And then, the allure—
soft and heavy, like the scent of a flower
just before it opens, quiet in its insistence.
When the poem is done, it hums
like a note sustained in the air,
vibrating long after the sound has stopped.
It is not a thing to possess,
but something to feel, to hold in the chest.
In the weave of words, there is pain,
but not the kind that breaks; the kind
that forms, the kind that binds.
And as I surrender to this,
the satisfaction arrives not in the perfect shape,
but in the creation of something that will last,
the quiet moment when the process becomes the thing
it was always meant to be.