January 01, 2005
This is a picture of Lucile Preysz --wife of Louis R. F. Preysz (my wife's great grandfather).
"Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself."
When she is with others,
she unwinds and unravels a bit
and the filaments from the frayed edges
of her soul stretch forth
and seeks to weave with those around her.
In the past, she was more liberal with herself,
but loss has made her hesitant.
(She had been woven with others
and lost too much of herself
when the strands were severed.)
As time took its due,
pieces of her soul
were buried with others
as death severed deep bonds.
With a chill, she feared a time
when there would be more of her
buried with others
than wrapped around her own core.
(The wisdom of age later gave insight
that she had no core
--just strands of soul unraveling, letting go.)
She was spreading too thin now,
as is the case when one grows older.
Strands still linked her to her children,
a friendly ex-husband,
a few friends, and even
the cat purring contently on her lap.
Soon she will be pulled a part
and all that remains
will be a scattered spirit,
memories of shelter,
and a golden strand woven in my soul.