The Weaver. . . .

A Kind Of World I Hoped To Build. . . .

where hearts open to each other, where minds are keen on learning and where love intends to see its full bloom.  Where beings are intent on growing to their fullness and work becomes a blessing.  Do I want much?

I want only what I worked and hoped for. . .where parenting is approached with a reverence bent on new life nurtured. . .

where the talents are perceived with a reverence granted to the giver, where life is held in the crucible of love and needs are cared for when they arise and lovingly attended with appropriateness.

Is it much that I ask for. . . . it only costs of self. . . . .priceless. . . .

 

The Weaver. . . .

Standing on a shrouded hill, integrating
worlds in a body split, is a woman,
weaving the old and the new
to warm a world gone cold.

Walking and usurping man’s ego,
split from his metamorphic mind,
she knots her splendor with magic.
Jealously guarding the expenditures,

she weaves the woolen mat in metaphysical colors,
unidentified by he who walks.
Marvelously melding with utmost utility,
she embraces the fabric, whole,

with never a glance to see the world
spinning into it.  Splendid is she
at her task as she garners strength from silences
filled with howling voices.

She separates them in her mind
and makes more magic.  Look up, we say,
look up at the wondrous unfolding!
Rain ponders its drops as they fall

but the woman weaves and weaves
and weaves.  She will look up

when it is finished.

 

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