Weave, Woven, Weave

She wove my threads onto her own,

In my likes and out her own,

In my dreams and out her own,

Out my faults and in her time,

Out my hates and in her love.

Time has woven all her threads.

Roll-up the cloth, unwind the warp,

No time to stop the pattern.

Only time that now remains

Is to weave on threads of my own.

This is a Mother's Day poem. I've been told the poem is too abstract, so I'll explain.

The strings on the loom, before doing any weaving, is called the warp. I see that as being God's commands and presence. He calls the design of the weaving, but the weaver (the mother)  does the work. "In" refers to entering the shuttle on the warp. "Out" refers to the shuttle coming out the other side. The weaver is the mother. When she dies, the "weaving" becomes "woven". God rolls up the woven part to expose more warp. The daughter then begins her own weaving.