All I See Are Patches

All I see are patches,
bits and snippets,
odd colors,
laced together,
close work, detailed work,
stitch by stitch,
texture and paint,
metal disguised as cloth,
a mix of light and dark,
lifelike confusion.

There is I am told,
a master plan,
but it is unseeable
up close
where the work is done.

About this poem. 

There is, I am told, a master plan. Mostly, I don’t see it until later, as my own patchwork life plays out.

The picture is of a sculpture at The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home.

Tom