I held the thread of life
When breath I grasped
Two decades past. I stitched the needle of beauty
To patterns of wisdom and love,
Mixed with the colors of sorrow and mirth. By my choices I proclaimed:
My design was mine alone,
shared to no one, not even God. Until the colorless hue I saw,
No pattern, no design,
Only nothingness exemplified. I looked up from the stitches
And saw the hand that held the thread:
It was God's. Yes.
God was the weaver
And I was only the loom.