Some Little Thoughts

Life is a tapestry, woven over many years.
The tapestry denotes life’s sojourn: One’s successes; one’s failures.
Cringe and rejoice at the stitches of time
Because, once a link is made,
It cannot be undone!
That pattern’s part is permanently laced:
Another of life’s chapters, recorded forever:
Filed; embossed; the future to remember,
Ever.
 

The din, the yelps, the squeals of toddlers,
Dirtying up the once, clean floor;
These add to the intricate depth of the tapestry,
Bringing brightness where once resided only pastel hues,
Adorning fringes of the yet finished design.
Blessed children! Come! Make your noises,
Leave your imprints on my fast-fading sight,
Let me touch you; hold you; kiss you:
Then, good night.
 

Day by day, the pattern unfolds;
It limns foibles, and feats of yore.
Would one have wished it, differently?
Would one want to change one single baste?
Could one change one single hue?
For life is foreordained and we, poor things,
Must follow the path,
As though guided through a maze, leading
To life’s final hearth?
 

Yesteryear: All gone.
Those little handprints, still visible on the kitchen jambe.
They must not be erased, lest one forgets.
Oh, child! You are life’s Mentor;
You are my parent, ad infinitum;
You give such wealth of colour that
Without you, life’s tapestry could never be.
So, please, I beg you: Do not walk, unthinkingly,
Upon my tapestry.

Do not walk upon my tapestry,
Old or soiled though it may be.
Look with empathy, upon the work of years;
Look with sympathy upon my tears;
And upon these fingers that did fashion
The topography of my life, and of my cares.
Look not with regret or remorse,
But with the knowledge that my life
Has run its course.
 

Would I alter a single day?
If the clock could back, would I want
To change one second of an hour?
And, if I could, would it matter in the final count?
We are all guardians of our time;
And, cloaks of another would never have fit.
For we can only wear those vestments, in off-shades of brown,
Crocheted by us, maybe; but each and every one must wear
A different coloured gown.
 

Man is such, that his tenure is as permanent
As the leaves upon the maple tree:
With the coming of every fall,
The leaves drop to earth … and, then, perish.
But, with the spring, again will come
New leaves to adorn the maple’s boughs,
Bringing colour to the pastel shades of brown and grey,
As though life were announcing, once more:
It is morning: A new day!
 

We live; we die; we are reborn.
With every passing, there is a new beginning.
While the shadow of a single man matters little at day’s end,
He is the tapestry: He is its colour; its shape.
He is the single force, causing his fellow to brave the storms
And to stand before us, 
Determined to be part
Of that unique design:
Forever weaving, and, forever, a new tapestry to start.