An Idealist Short of Ideals Turns to Weaving

Bits of Poetry

Weaving, the taking of all things
Gently in your hands,
Resting strands between fingers,
Feeling silk and heft,
Crossing what is,
With what comes next.

There is a rhythm to weaving,
It sounds like this. Steady.
Unhurried. Like your heart.
Hear it beat?

That is the beginning. And the end.
And all that’s in between.
It’s rest. Everything that’s beautiful,
In this world, starts there.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. minstrelandmuse
    Aug 14, 2014 @ 19:17:06

    Thank you for re-posting my poem.



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