Some days the waiting is too hard.
Time either runs swiftly or barely moves at all.
It is disorienting
this time of daily, hourly, minute by minute change.
I feel as if the world is a transient space,
ebbing, flowing, lives intertwining
and then breaking apart never to touch again.
It is a world of strangers
who become friends briefly.
Common theme touching each one
lightly or darkly
weaving strands of lives together
to complete one row in the
These rows are the ones
deemed slight imperfections
to reflect the reality of the maker.
Slubs will occur to testify to
"a slight irregularity in yarn
produced either accidentally
by knotting or twisting or
by including uneven lengths of fiber in spinning."
Which are we I wonder as I stare about
at faces transformed by scalpel, age, and pain.
Which are we? Accident or purpose?
All uneven fibers
twisting, twining, spinning...