The Mending

The Mending

There comes a time

when the mending is out of our hands.

It falls beyond the reach 

of needle and thread,

of determined fixing and worn self help patches,

all manner of effort falls short.

When the unraveling comes

do not be afraid;

the Unmaker stands before

a greater loom where

chyrsalises are shed, 

tight knots in life unspooled to the floor

the splendor of leaves fall from the trees

returning to the humility of ground

a glint of ebony on the raven’s wing,

as the black thread is shuttled,

back and forth, our questions,

back and forth, crashing wave to shore

rocked by the drum of the heartbeat

lungs empty and fill again,

until the essential nature

of a larger design speaks

quieting us with

the eloquence of stillness.

Simple as a breath, 

into the great unwinding we go

we are rendered out of our hunting grounds,

and delivered into something that opens our eyes;

we become kin to the seasons and

kneel before the wise counsel of winter

bare and humbled

reaching toward our inner sky.

by Margo Stebbing