Life is a weaver.
She is everywhere, gathering and dying threads and weaving them into an eight-dimensional tapestry
Three for space,
Four for time,
Five for inner peril,
Six for dreams,
Seven for almost-memories,
Eight for connection
If there is a picture, maybe Life is the only one who can see deep enough
Maybe she has her mental blueprints,
Thrusting threads away and bringing them back,
Diving under, snipping short
Each thread is a means to the end
Is it a portrait?
Of a moon, a mother, a storm?
Perhaps she weaves a portrait of the universe
And at the end she will flow out
With satisfaction of a work completed
I think that would bore her.
The next pattern
The next double-helix design is an impulse
Every thread shines as brightly, half-full of infinite possibilities
Perhaps today she feels like a turquoise spiraling joke with yellow tassels
Tomorrow a woolen poem that says nothing at all
Every flight of fancy weaves a new pattern, springing from the old
If she flows out and looks,
She can call it, "abstract modern art"
And gather for her latest inspiration.