The times are frail; as they come dodging back in racing back in like a speeding bullet ready to be free.

It’s hard to feel comfort.

The times they are scattered and have holes.

Here is the night, here is the day
And we take small
Bits
Of thread
And fuse them to the here; and the hereafter.

The day gone, and the one approaching.

We say
“Look”
We have fixed it!

Careful not to tear the delicate lace of the tiny dancer
Careful not to pluck out the piece of thoughtful cloud that’s
Holding it all together
My thoughts jump me across the wild ravine
Point A to Point B
And I say we “have fixed it” !

But, it’s still hard to find comfort.

But we are walking a metaphysical tightrope
We are the tiny ants of reimagining the
New world
Taking some time off
To think
So as not to tear the underbelly
Not to re-awaken the Lion
Not to be swallowed again
By the whale.

Don’t tear the lace of the tiny dancer!

The spider weaves. He’s weaving comfort.

Glory be !
That, the spider weaves.

And we’re all watching
Hoping the stained glass
Sticks to the windows of love
Hoping nobody sees us furiously
Trying to figure it all out.

For the times they are frail; as they come dodging back in racing back in like a speeding bullet ready to be set free!

I need me some comfort. I’m ready for comfort.

It takes time to mend the corners
Of love.
It takes time to sew.
To Mend.
To weave.
To fold.
I am ready for comfort.