Revision 3

So that’s that…

The end of the fabric-

the threads run out

The garment created,

unraveling….

The  foundations-

of our worlds collide

in the silence of space.

No words:

without waves,

or a thread

of  respect, or even honor,

for the ending  hem.

Just  the rip in a torn tea towel

traveling to the rag bag…

And in that silence is anger.

Our anger…

Strips we tear

at what was done, perceived, or executed.

The stubborn refusal

to acknowledge

our cowardice,

Hooked in a crochet

Of frozen intentions.

 

We are a paralyzed braid,

quadriplegic in our emotions,

stitched oval

in a spiral

of your moment,

and me in my recovery…

My foundation,

where the The Natural Law

Is in the woof and weave:

trees woven in sky,

rivers in seams,

and stars embellish

the pockets,

front and back.

The idols we make

 sit toad- like on  shelves,

grinning ineptly at blank walls.

They become

 dust –

                        silent…

What gods would be silent?

Not the one God-

He roars in every thread of creation.

He knows His  creation-

It is His design…

It is not natural

or organic

to submerge, bury,

nullify,

who we are in our restoration.

God would have us human again

So we could do His purpose.

Complementarity.

Woven together in mutual respect and love.

The Art in His Creation.

No longer in violation

of the rhythm

and purpose

of the Natural Order of things.

and I still love you wildly , madly, and passionately ....