in life's ribbons
like human lives,
stretched across time
parallel and silent in waves
humming, translucent discernments
of hues whose choices are always ours
the broken ones, the Weaver can't fix
without our consent
and the gods, if they choose
strike the ribbons from small to large
harp, vagrant tremor of chaotic
existence, like a piano dropped
from seven stories up.
Why are you here? the nurse in the day room asked.
Because I am made of strings that extend all around
to my family, my friends, they've been plucked too hard-
many are broken. I've come to have them mended.
there is nothing left to play
life lives on its simplest level
the judge dismisses all pending cases
you might have won or lost.
your father is leaving soon
and has asked you to walk him home
he believes you know the way