Clotho spins my destiny with the pattern of thread,
A measured length for my fate,
‘Tho Fortuna is oft’ capricious instead,
I keep moving at a measured gait.

Gently holding the view of treasure,
Following directions and the rules,
Patterns have their inner measure,
Calling for skill with life’s tools.

Some tricky stitches in the weave,
A concession given for the style.
Cut the last thread and leave,
So, remaining only a wry smile.

Some fate, some destiny—a partial knowing,
The logos pattern is all around,
And, mind and soul can touch its glowing,
‘Tho on earth, we do seem bound.