The Spinner

I am spinning a web.

 The threads are

                         at first

very fine and

                        difficult to hold

onto,

especially if my fingers are cold,

or stiff

from inaction.

The threads are not

 from me.  I am

not a spider.

       The threads come to me;

                some on the breeze, some

                through the window,                      others

are carried

by other

threads.

 I take them and attach them

                                  (or try to)

to my person; to my

knotted thread.

There are times

                        that the silken pieces seem

 to slip of themselves

                        into my delicate weave.

 

 At other times, the slippery bits slide out of my grasp

                       and float off,                                    away.

 

 

 I watch them and pray

that they return or

if not, that they

find their carpets and knots in

a happy loom.

                                        I am happy

when those bits get carried back

and my now-experienced fingers hold them

with more assurance

and they receive me

    better.

 

I am a

Weaver

of a tapestry, designed

                         in a Mind

   beyond mine. 

The pattern is that

of the                         unfolding Universe,

and it is

the pattern

        of me

and                                    you and

us

and our being

and our blood;

                                                       it is a pattern of things like stars

and crud and of colours

                                     like lust and fear and

happy and good

                              and

your carpet.