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
