It is a cloth between my fingers, worn bare
by pulling and tugging. It is fine silk,
smooth to the grasp.
Again and again, I have ran my hands across its length
folding corners at the hem, cool as water, restless;
This scrap will not be pulled from my hands, though I am bid
to put it down. I am sewing,
and the weave has taken shape.
I shall wear this cloak in winter;
I shall wrap its length around me, shelter against summer fires,
against blossom's rain and sleeping rivers,
but its length is a paragraph, and I write on lace,
asking questions of a blank page:
Why bid me to put it down? I cannot drop
the needlework that bends my fingers to the bone;
I am weaving,
I am coaxing threads into shape.