Rags

At times You seem so fragile;

like the dust-rotted threads
of grandma’s quilt –

snapping to powder
as I pull You close;

my life fabric unraveling in cold,
unguarded chaos.

A calico patch fades,
sun bleached to blank perfection –
still I mourn the loss of color.

I think I spot You in the
motley costume of a clever clown,
chase that merry Andrew to the moon;

but the vagabond’s dress decays
as stars fade into knowledge.

It is then You seem most strong;
not part of any vesture -

and hold me ever tighter,
without any rags at all.

Written October 16, 2003