our lives like cloth are woven,
and some of what is left
when we are done with it
are simply fabrications mixed in
with what is true it seams,
there are patches to
replace holes torn,
and loose threads to remove
and someone needling us
most of our lifes,
there are knitted brows,
and hems and haws,
there are ragged places
and satin smooth stretches of
material wealth for all
we chose our wardrobes
whether silk or burlap
by the stitches in time
that we render skillfully
or without care
There is no thimble
for one's heart as we
move through the rapid production
of life's fabrics being
draped upon us daily
till the body bag enfolds us
and the silken box becomes
our pin cushion for
the tumble of our bones
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis
