Pattern

If my life is fabric, what's the cloth?
Warp and woof, threads crossing
and mine run lengthwise
from birth to death
The tangle a meaningless pile
a skein without strength
but for the crossthread

Those who wound themselves
around and through my life
Pulling taut what lay in useless form
Mingling colors, the red of envy
enlightened yellow, soft green
that speaks of inner peace
moods pale blue to black

Taking me up and laying me down
reworked and newly shaped
How many? Too many, not enough
Each face that waited patient years
to glance and turn away, walk on
never speaking and even so
their thread knotted in my own

Every banker that turned me down
and child that held me up
in too harsh a light to understand
Drew a thread across mine, a shuttle
cast back or forth, intricacy of pattern
in this ancient, newborn weaver's art
In a lifetime, a tapestry or shroud

There was a time I fooled myself
into forcing patterns, selecting colors
as if such a thing were no more difficult
than a clansman's noble pattern
Will I make of myself a McKenzie
or a Tartan Plaid?
The foolishness of willful years, not yet gone

This may sound as though I've learned
something worth the passing on
If only it were so, something to teach
for god's sake worth learning
Some reason to write these words
that you might take away
To work into the scheme of your design

Because you've brightened mine
even in the darker colors
of misunderstanding
I can't get back to look at it, my face
too pressed against the weaving
Wouldn't recognize it anyway as mine
Whatever final pattern, your strand is there