Its thread, vibrant with color, is uneven,
knotted and frayed as though the loom
of its weaving is made of soft rubber that gives.
Its origin is unknown. One who looks
will find a side, an angle or a point yet its
ongoing narrative connects only to more fabric.
Its surface is filled with holes — naked, dressed,
gaping, patched up, sewn in — each occurrence
a question of trust that the fabric won’t tear.
The fabric is vast and textured. I am woven
in its fragile thread and no amount of
push and pull will release my place in it.
I thought about adding a little prose to accompany the above words but instead, I stumbled on this, which pretty much sums it up:
Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect. ~ Chief Seattle
for dVerse Poets Pub