Gossamer

 

The new year,

thin as a baby’s gossamer

blonde hair barely swirling

in the wind.

 

Light as a spiderweb,

yet capable of supporting

immense weight and new

burdens.

 

A thin, wispy new year

has started and its threads

are still fine and strong,

unblemished by use and time.

 

The new year loom being operated,

by swift fingers, unbloodied,

and sure, deftly looping and

sewing the edges.

 

The spool of thread,

eons of prior material

repurposed, pulled thin again,

sorted and set.

 

Fine lines of blues, reds and greens,

woven together to make a tapestry

of a new year, another banner to

hang in the great hall of time.

 

The images and scenes,

too new to be clear,

the edges however, sure and sturdy,

a hemline for what’s next.

 

Formless string, endowed with

hopes, doubts, fears and joys,

tears, laughter, blood and sweat.

Majestic threads all.