If Only In My Beginning Weren't My End!

Imagine tying up all of the strings
Into one tight rope -some scattered ones
Would hang loose of the bundle,
The waving flags of imperfection,
But the rope remains more important.
This is the season to sow and not to reap.
Perfection is a star sometimes hidden by a cloud.
The light is dimmed, and then the cloud passes.
It shines again, and, like starlight,
Something very far away illuminates what is present.
We are submerged in a bath from a source
We can never reach; the tap switches on and off
Of its own accord.  We have no power
But must accept the light and the shadow.
Tie up the rope in a season of darkness;
Trim all the threads only when the stars appear.