fingers know every stitch
the predictable comfort
of every well placed rip
and where the silky edging
contrasts with the weave
and how when placed just so
the smallest hand can grasp
the dual nature
and still believe
in Oneness.
The simple needs of infancy
linger in the hearts of every age.
Growing older,
I learn to loosen my grip
let air move through fearful fingers
I let go
so I can comfortably hang out
with what I do not know
and what seems strange.
I wake up
to the resistance
that is fighting with the change
that is bound to come.
We age into the infinite spiral
return to childhood,
turn to the One
and hanging out with the unknown
(like laundry in the sun)
the woven strands of all we've done
by angel hands
are sewn together.
The dream weaver's miracle occurs
when what I hid behind in fear,
I stand upright
proud to wear--
a sacred blanket.
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