Peer through your own eyes
Into the reality you have stitched,
Each fiber has been hand-sewn
By your thoughts and dreams.
A bird lands on the windowsill
But what brought it to you?
A silent whistle, a tune that you know
And it knows?
A thought is carried on a breeze.
Pull into your hands
That which you desire
Until your fingers are so filled with your tapestry of colors,
That you must hang it from the point of the crescent moon,
To the tip of a bright star.
Cut the threads of that which you no longer need,
Patch the hole with the knowledge of your heart.
Everything you have woven is right.