The Weaver

The Spinner spins a crimson thread
ex nihilo, bred
of no body, blood
of no blood, running red
over the wheel, flood
of tears and wear and tear of years
and bitter woes that flesh inherits
but also joys, fresh merits and unmerits
which the body gives and earns
and which no angel ever learns
by only pure intelligence.
Things of feelings not of science,
of bone and skin and utter chaos,
spun on the wheel, into light
into the tao,
into the naos
of delight.

The Weaver weaves it in our lives:
warp of feeling, woof of thinking.
- and through it all the golden thread
of that I Am

Which treads us back from the abyss,
to search for meaning:
and dismiss what's sold to us...

When once we've seen behind the screen that gold's faint gleam.