Creation

Sorting,
endlessly sorting
through endless strands of thought,
thickly tangled as they are,
as they would be,
among convoluted perceptions
and all cognitive mechanisms
beyond my awareness.

Sorting endlessly,
--like hacking through jungle growth
with a blunt machete--
it can be easy to forget
how close you really are,
in the farthest away unseen,
and with the twilight
and light’s fatigue
drawing us all inward toward repose,
I feel you near again,
and remember:

These strands we’ve spun,
together, you and I,
and we shall weave them
on your gold and silver loom,
through my night of dreaming;
we shall weave them into dawn.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen