Shuttle
©December 11th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
The weaving of magic
Happens with many hands,
Many threads, and a vision
That cuts through past and future,
And makes and eternal present –
A gift to those who arrive,
Hoping to be transported.
Ephemeral it is, this magic,
And full of the poignant joy
Of its rich, multi-threaded beauty,
All the more poignant because,
It fades quietly when we leave,
Like a tapestry in full sunlight
Pouring through an open window,
That somebody forgot to shut.
And yet, it is an eternal present,
Living in memory, fading, but persistent,
As long as we live, and walk this earth.
Our cells remember, even when we don’t,
And our ears hold songs and words,
Even when we cannot.
We are the sum of our parts,
And our parts know more than we do.
I want the whole of me to know
What every part of me knows,
To have eyes and ears that see and hear
From all directions, all dimensions.
But, you see, that can never happen.
For how can a cell know the body?
And this magic moves through it all,
Weaving strand over strand, thread over thread,
The shuttle goes back and forth,
Back and forth, back and forth,
And the patterns that emerge tell a story.
I want to make the pattern,
And be the pattern, and be
The unceasing shuttle that moves
Back and forth, back and forth.
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