The Vow

They were unlikely.

He burned with words,
poems breathing from ink-stained fingers.
Some words wild, loose.
Some burned through him.
Others stayed.

She was calm.
Aware.
Her heart in the loom—
threads moving beneath her hands,
cloth becoming language

He was half her age.

Daniel arrived in early spring.
By autumn,
they listened.
By winter,
they understood.

After one year,
their rhythms—
like night to day.

Mornings were tranquil.
Daniel learned to make her tea.
She already knew how to prepare his coffee.
They sat on the veranda, listening—
waves on rocks.

Daniel wrote feverishly.
Isabel hummed while she was at the loom.

One day, Daniel put down his pen.
No longer burning, he lingered over each word,
debated commas with Isabel.

Autumn’s chill arrived.
Daniel chopped and stacked wood.

Isabel wasn’t at her loom one day.
She sat before the hearth, nursing a cold.
Daniel brought her tea.
Here, love, this will help —
his hand brushing hers.
She looked up, eyes questioning.

Seasons passed.
Daniel’s poems grew into several volumes,
hand-lettered,
bound in Isabel’s cloth.

Isabel’s tapestries, woven art:
color, texture—
music in her hands.

Daniel, we need more wood.
He brought wood inside,
with something else.

What have you found?
A stray kitten, barely weaned.
Taking turns night and day,
they tended the kitten.

A bed with soft wool—
constant vigil of warm milk,
first fingers, then a dropper.
The kitten finally opened its eyes—
wide and blue.
Breathing. Soft. Steady.

Issa, what have we gone and done?
Oh, Daniel, she is ours.

Ten years passed before Daniel first baked bread.
He was barefoot (always), in a gray linen shirt,
pants covered in flour.
She wove these for him years ago.

Careful, Isabel, he said, brushing flour from his hands.
You may yet find a poem hidden in this flour.

Isabel smiled, watching him.
She made root vegetable stew,
for Daniel’s bread.

They ate by candlelight.
He noticed her hair wore more silver.

She noticed the plentiful silver at his temples.
A rogue lock fell on his forehead.
She reached for it,
slowly pushing it away.

Do you remember bolting into this room after midnight—
totally bare, wild-haired?

I do! How can I forget my humiliation, Issa?
I woke with an idea for a poem—

Yes, I remember the poem—and more.

For seconds, both smiled.
And knew.

Daniel noticed a slowing in Isabel’s gait.

One mid-winter evening, she fell.
Oh my heart, Issa—
Daniel was there in seconds, holding her head up.
He lifted her onto the bed.
Warm quilts, laid. Water at her side.

After midnight, she called out for him.
Even with quilts, she shuddered,
teeth striking against one another.

Daniel slipped from his bed
into hers.

He gathered her into his arms,
his body curved around her.
She trembled against him, breath shallow.
Hush, Issa. I’m here.

He held her until the shaking slowed.
Until her breathing steadied.
Until sleep took her.

The following spring
the world arrived
to buy her woven works,
to find the reclusive poet
of hand-lettered books.

Thank you. No. We do not sell our work.

Summer arrived,
they walked the clamshell beach.
Daniel matched her slower pace.
He matched his heart to hers long ago.
They sat in a shaded grove of wild jasmine.

Isabel, I brought a poem to read,
if you’d like.

Of course, Daniel.
She noticed his woven linen shirt,
open, billowing in the sea air as he read.

Soft tears fell.
He reached up with his thumbs
gently rubbing them away.
Daniel, it is beautiful.

He smiled with joy,
placed his arm around her—
for he knew.
She leaned into him;
her walk, unsteady.
And the warmth between them could not be named.

Tremor.
Her right hand.
The loom stopped.

Daniel held her hand between his,
until her panic subsided.

It wasn’t long before her sight dimmed.
Isabel never touched the loom again.

Daniel wrote more poems.
He stayed close.

Let’s sit on the veranda, she said.
Without sight, she was tuned to the ocean’s voice,
named each scent drifting through the air.

They sat in the double rocker.

Daniel, it is time.
—No, Isabel, stay a little.

I cannot.

He bowed his head, holding her closer.
—I know.

With her last exhale, Isabel’s eyes closed.
Her head settled on his shoulder.
Her left hand rested over his heart.

Daniel held her, rocking into the night.

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About the Art

Title: ‘The Divine Loom No. 1’
Copyright: 2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan