in a book full of rooms was a loom,
the weaver absent,
the art abandoned.
on the floor, soft woolen threads,
fragments fallen away
in soft colors,
neutral by plans of indecision;
the stiff, tight woven thing,
geometric and precise,
lay like a hard, rough matt;
the spirit guides vanished,
the wooden loom, silent;
the quest for ordered philosophy
threaded within the muted colors.
then the books fall in,
and then the cabinets,
then the rooms beyond,
to reveal the blue sky;
then i am falling through clouds
and become a bobbin lace,
stretched o'er a velvet pillow,
my becoming pulled by weights of gold
for all to see, a plan of capricious mind,
becoming a bookmark.....
then shelved and forgotten.
then i awaken with a start,
the room is luminous,
then, all is dark.....
and back in sleep,
the moon is up,
the nightbirds sing.