Every moment’s living
pull’s a thin red thread of time,
unraveling temporal precepts,
stitching worldly mind.
Embroidered concepts fall away,
their threads drop to the floor,
imaged history just remains
in stains once stitched before.
Collective soul is fabric stretched
across the living span,
tensioned smart by good hearts there
and held by loving hands.
The tapestry, taut, is ours to fill,
ours to so design,
to color by our soul’s sweet purpose
and stitch in finest lines.
Yet blunder we, in stab or two,
tie a knot where none was due,
prick a spirit’s finger there
hope forgiveness grants repair.
But loving souls in holding taut
the fabric of our lives,
do guide the pattern’s tender care
if we, with open eyes
move on toward dreams with love,
move on beyond the fear –
trust in truth the needle’s dance
will grant good stitching here.
On walls in heaven’s quarters hang
the fabrics of our lives,
meant to show our purposed soul
embroidered by the dreams we try.