On such a tenuous and fragile thread,
the tender stuff with which mad dreams are sewn,
are woven all the notions of the head;
their pattern held by faith and will alone.

Each gentle tendril attached by a whim
and balanced with the slightest sense of touch,
upon a silver string so pale and slim,
’tis more a wisp of nothing – nothing much.

Yet with these flimsy strands the world is made,
and fastened surely to the breath of life,
connected to the source of each new day;

and in the folds are found both light and shade,
in equal parts are hidden joy and strife –
the gossamer thin fabric of today.

26 DEC 2002

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