Sunday, April 19, 2009

A Writing...

The mighty star disappeared and in the twinkling of an eye, ten thousand sparks of brilliant light filled the once empty sky. Colors danced as the stars sparkled like diamonds.

Each star, a magnificent giant in its own right, stood solemn and strong, yet they were not standing at all. Instead they were suspended by some strange, unknowable and unseen force. Like beacons on the seashore they radiated light. They were full of intense power and glorious glory as they radiated their light across the universe, but it was only a whisper, a whisper of sweet tiny diamond secrets pulsating "light" into the deep. It was a strange, sweet heavenly speech that they uttered and their voices haunted those who heard them toll. As magnificent, as large and as powerful as they were, burning unconsummated.both day and night, from a distance they were but specks. Stars, tiny glittering gems suspended on a black velvet, shining in the night.

Day upon a day, night upon a night, the mighty stars showered the earth with their bold proclamations. Day upon day, night upon night, as long as the magnificent stars would shine forth light, wisdom could be heard, for wisdom too, was working.

The rainbow colored threads at her feet took their turns spinning in fabulous circles as she labored, tirelessly giving her undivided attention to every detail of the work. With great precision she worked each and ever strand across the frame as if it were the only one that mattered. She was wisdom and she was weaving.

Pushing her treadle ever so softly, and with great care, she sang a love song as she worked, the melody of which was carried long and far and wide. Her bittersweet words billowed upon the breeze created by her breath. Her love song lingered.

She worked for what seemed an eternity, sweeping first one and then another skein of scarlet wool between the flaxen strands. She was devoted to her work. She was not tired, but she paused. Reflecting for a moment on the meaning of the tapestry at her hands, taking note that it was good, she resumed her weaving and her song. Her work was almost finished.

Few on Earth could see the starlight; fewer still could hear her loom, and they were too busy to hear her song. Blinded by the light of their own personal creation, captivated by the works of their own hands, few would cast even a wayward glance upon the stars, or wonder the meaning of it all.

Earth spun like a flywheel through the dead of night as wisdom filled her quill with golden thread and passed it between the warp and weft once more. Soon, the last thread would pass and night would forever pass away. It would be day forever, and the darkness would never rise again.

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