weaving dreams by sewing the seams of my time and thy tapestry.
Where with my thoughts I loosen these have and have knots
then so to intertwine the impossible with probability.
Thus I purl as I ponder that my mind often wanders as endlessly as the sky,
most indubibly daydreaming of thee as I gather the wool
might that I find this fool solution to the convoluted convolution
of the what’s and the wares of weaving the why.
Yet hopeless it seems to thread the needle of my dreams
I would only be the fool bigger of knot to
© Charles Coakley Simpson 2008