A Circus for One
It is a strange art,
the weaving of threads, dozens, hundreds sometimes,
all alike, or in a mix of colors and texture,
so much time, so much effort in the lining up
of each one to create the fabric you choose,
a delicate art, that, the choosing,
a discipline that is half natural, half
contrary to nature.
This has always been your failure, an impurity
of mind and soul, half this and half that,
and never all of anything. Always on the edge
of falling to this side or the other, guaranteed
to contradict yourself with any choice, word or action.
What a strange cloth you weave, madcap
and mixed, colors where they are unexpected,
a bit jarring, a bit bright and vibrant.
stable only in your ability to walk the tightrope,
willing and able to fall, sure that ressurection
is not a one time event, but a process.
A circus act for one,
About this poem.
I think most of us are not just this or that, but this and that Once we accept that, the cloth we were mean to be emerges, never what we thought we were supposed to be, but what we are.
The picture was taken at the Farmer’s Museum in Cooperstown, NY.