Inventing Pink in the Land of Purple

If I could but blend together endless time-the colors of love and hate. Growing from the kingdom of my endless thoughts, I would know the secret of the weaver's hand.
About the colored grasses of the marshy kingdom's growth, I stare in ignorance. If I but knew the secret of the weaver's hand.
This was a start to an endless task; weaving in and out of the colored fields of grass, I started on my way. And a growing sense of commitment grew as my fields of luminosity grew. I watched with love the flourishing of my dear colored fields. If I could now learn the secret of the weaver's hand.
But I did learn in my one-room hut that color loves company, and I loved company too. We played together, sang together, as my unschooled hands nimbly spun the colored fields into the fine clean thread-just like a weaver would do. My colors dimmed away as I cried at night--wallowing at my soft hand's terrible ineptitude. If only I could practice with the secret skill of weaver's hand.
I slowly grew and learned how to roll the soft grasses into the silkiness of smiling eyes. I could fill my basket full of colors without end. They called to me, inspired me, and taught me how to grow. But time passed quickly and I found that I could notice the little things with my trained eyes. Yet, my hands cried silently, "if I could only carry on with the judgement of the weaver's hand".
In the silent nights when wind and rain would tug at my fading home, the grass would whimper silently and cower in the storm. I would not leave them there you see, by now my eyes were simply there. They only things that they could see were brilliant colors that ran on forever. And one-by-one I wove my threads, curious as to what'd I'd done. It started small; it started weak, but it matured week-by-week. And thrillingly my eyes would sing about the discovered secret of the weaver's able hand.
I worked forever; I worked nonstop. I found that I was drawn to the colors who called to me to weave them strangely in and out. It grew and grew until it could grow no more; the colored fields rejoiced. Laughingly they called to me, "you've found the secret of the weaver's hand". I asked them curiously what they did mean, "I've learned no secret; I've learned no skill.", I explained to the best of me. They smiled and laughed and shone some more,"No, but you have learned to love the weaver's tool and grown to serve us all. The secret of the weaver's hand is loving great and small".