You weren’t born a basket
but the weaving of you began long ago,
before a thought ever conceived you.
Plaited, wefted, crossed
again through the stars
time and again.
Spider, fly
touching points of light and
threading into the dark
Dipped into the
bubbling brook to
be given the Word
Threaded through
the eye to see
all the universe watching
weaving.
You.
Into your bounty,
beauty and
basket that holds the heart of God.
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