When you see a thread disappear, you should understand that we are all interwoven, and that a new thread will arise a little farther down, to do its part, and then be gone once more.
SpinningA 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