[Soaring Feather]

Good morning everyone.

[NicknamedBob]

Spinning

A wreath is a loop, it’s a circular thing,
But the way of our ways is more spiral than ring.
It circles around,                    that is true in its way,
But it doesn’t       come back      to the point      where it lay.

It just carries on forward                                and makes a new start,
Putting down fresh material                                       to cover that part.
A spiral, a turning,                                                          a twisting around,
As days follow days                                               like the manna we found.

For manna from Heaven                                               is the time we receive, 
Every day, every morning,                                        then we get up and leave,
Our abode and our comfort,                                           in trust that we’ll find,
It will be there to hold                                                   us and help us unwind.

Every day as we dance,                                         through our pirouette style,
We lay out our moments                                           like a gossamer mile,
Of thin silken fibers                                              of dreams and intent,
As we spin our life’s work                  in the days that we’ve spent.

With our neighbors and friends as we dodge and we dance,
With the warp and the weft, and some colors perchance,
We are making a tapestry, each one in our way,
Contributes a part with his actions that day.
And Who is the artist? The Weaver sublime?
The patient Director        Who gathers up time?
Why Who else would it       be but the Master of days,
Making silk from the cobwebs we’ve strewn in His ways.

NicknamedBob. . . . . . . August 23, 2005