taste your colored thread
Your socks darned, your hair clean, your eyes soft.
The Way it Is
By William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
~
Poem from The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems by William Stafford. Graywolf Press, 1998.
Art: Tinsel and Metal Thread, French, 17th and 18th Century, Public Domain
Invitation
What is the thread you hold?
What is it made of? What does it want? What does it pull or carry you toward? When do you notice it in your hands?
Share what comes to you in the comments, if you would like.
(My thread is spun of words twisted together with the light that I feel when laughing with someone I love, the light in an exchange of support. It’s very tough, like spiderweb braided with hemp fiber. It sings an ethereal soprano, give, mend, find, bless, let change, endure, cherish, give, mend, lift, shine. It’s no special color—dun, dirt, old cinnamon stick.)
Tell us about yours…
An artistic video interpretation of the poem, “The Way It Is” by William Stafford, created by Kathryn Oliver:
Thank you for being here, and a special thanks to my paid subscribers, who strengthen my thread with encouragement so I can keep spinning it. Thank you to those who read and comment, for spinning your thread into ours.
Sometimes I do drop the thread. I think it's lost. Then I find it in the hem of my pants or tangled in my hair. Are you my thread? I ask. Plaintive, like "Are you my mother?"