Weaving

A dream came to visit me
in my sleep only two nights ago
waking me at my finger tips
inviting me to place my hands
into the ८०,000 threads of light
that make up the soul.
I listened to the sound of the spinning
of all time in that drowsy place.

His face came first
with the center of his right eye
fixed on mine
in the embrace of my deepest heart
showing me where to begin to weave
these blackest threads
into the space
where the truth of his mouth
could have been.
I was lost in this god place,
in the place where all my knowing
was right,
making my skin sure of each knot
I was tying in the purples and greens
and golden strands.
The bonds holding tight and secure.

“The work is hard.” I thought
in this dream.
The path is here in the layers and layers. . .
in the fabric I will smooth
silky over my body.

I am the bride
stitching my own gown
unwilling to go back to the life
I knew before love. . .
A child, grown into a woman,
the goddess taking the hand of this consort
and willing him into a handsome partner.

This gown is perfect for travel
at night through the stars of sleeping
light captured
like a breeze
in the open window
of spring.