yet when or where would never be certain,
after the Spinner had spun a long life,
a tapestry of love
measured to its last rung,
at least it’s hoped so.
What mystery befalls us then,
when, back into the sea of everything we return,
atom by atom, element by element,
with no particle of percieved separation?
What of imagination and memory distilled through experience,
the ingredients of self understanding?
Some where in deep space,
deep inside us,
is a cluster of stars,
the very stuff we are made of.