I’ve built a frame and called it God.
I hammered nails into planks borrowed
from cleverer souls than I,
bored holes with years of looking closely,
and twisted joists within.
I’ve strung the contraption tight as a harp,
one string for every breath taken in silence,
in time set apart to honour That.
The threads I’m handed hold clashing colours,
and I’m not told the pattern in advance,
but I’ve chosen the Beloved as a loom
for my task, and in invisible structure
I allow this work to take shape,
this net to catch my despair, or hopelessness,
and spin something beautiful out of it.