I hold loose
threads of vibrant
rainbow hue.
As my hands
lie hushed
and jaded eyes
stare endlessly
at fondled strands.
I cannot see
the point. No
sense at all here
in simply seasoned
fibrous filament
to tie or bind.
What is
the reason?
So many flow
down, snaking across
the floor then
fading from view.
I don't know
where they go
perhaps it's
just a few.
They would lie
so still and fast,
yet now I feel
the faintest pull
'gainst my staid
fingering posture.
I try to think,
my mind still dull.
Then slow, a
hand slides over
the other, interlacing,
and moving perspective.
My eyes trace
a pattern before
not visible from some
unseen directive.
Then I feel
your hands too,
moving and binding
the lacing blueprint,
this one under,
this one over.
Knowing what to weave
with no vocal hint.
Your strong
fingers slide
a gilded one in
for needed contrast
and strength for time
we'll weave for
the future and
warmth to last.
Blue and red
become purple
as textures form,
singles become one
and the point might
just be coming
at last
before it's done.
Before patience
weaving could
make no sense, near
impossible to guess,
individual bits make
no sense at all
how the end
will come to rest.
Single strands
beautiful, but of
little use in
warmth or beauty.
Put them together.
Form, and weave,
interspersed with joy
is our duty.
We can't always
see the fabric
that wraps us
up in bliss.
But it is as real
as my loving touch
upon your face.
As real as a kiss
you place upon
my lips in welcome ...
or goodbye,
for a season.
God give me
eyes to see it ...
and you ... every
day we're given.