poetry
gypsy girl
some people weave their lives from golden threads
spun by servants on machines faraway
they avoid danger that may cause a tear
and weave in the way that they're told
they choose all the latest colors
and keep their eyes upon their little looms
never questioning the bars on the windows
the lives they weave flow seamlessly
smooth as silk and soft as rain
into themselves and into others
a grand monochrome tapestry
lovely for its uniformity
elegant and predictable
or ominous as a shroud?
I prefer to weave another way
I began with nothing
so I spin my thread from scraps
things I pick up along the path
choices and lessons and laughter
and should I stumble and tear a hole
I'll mend it with memories and moonbeams
no bother
wild and untidy is this life I weave
rough and unpredictable
full of bells and shiny things
but never dull
it keeps me warm on cold winter nights
and shields me from the sun
this little life I weave
conects to others on all sides
with the strongest threads you'll ever find
a great patch-work quilt
mad and formless and free
and as we live and love and wander
we will dance in our bright banner
a flag for freedom and change
and somewhere in our mad and passionate dreams
this quilt will grow
until it's large enough to warm the whole world