There is a skein of golden thread

Hand woven it is

Shuttling between what was, what is

Glistening in the darkness of silver light

Knitting what will be

It clothes the soul of you and me

As the weaver pulls the the shuttle

For an instant at each end

The thread relaxes

We expeience great elation

With the weavers' next deft stroke

The needle pulls and taxes

Grief grips, perplexes our emotions

'Til the sweater of life is woven

Becoming the coutenance of our lives

It provides our vain disguise

It is not ambiguity

Should our choice of weaver

Have been wiser

Once the sweater is donned

The weavers' identity is ever lost

We and he, inseparable