The World I Worked 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 talents are perceived with a reverence granted the giver and 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?

Do I work hard because I think I am the prime mover and instigator in my life?  Are we, each and everyone?

And if it were a known, would there be chaos?  Would we be immobile because within the each is the knowledge that our god would rescue us?  Would it be knowledge or faith?

Is this why people don’t try harder?  But try they do.  Doing is what they don’t.

THE WEAVER. . .

Standing on a shrouded hill,
integrating worlds in a body, split,
is a she-man, 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 splendour 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 gains
strength from silences filled with howling voices.
She separates them in her mind and makes more magic.

Look up, look up, we say,
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.