Even armed with a wristwatch,
time is something
I never learned to keep.
Always one step ahead,
one step behind,
my own syncopated drumbeat.
I tried to keep time like chickens–
cultivating it, counting it,
trying to plan
for the next three seasons.
You can’t keep time like
Keep time like children.
Close to you when it’s young,
wandering in its adulthood,
until one day it comes home, and
you don’t recognize yourself anymore.
A ball of yarn is an unwritten story,
all wrapped up, leading places unseen.
It sits there on your desk,
just taunting you,
daring you to take it up and
see what you can make.
Needles in hand, you begin.
A few chapters in, you’ve built
a good base; you try getting fancy.
Introducing a pattern that grows more
and more intricate by rows.
But somehow the yarn revolts–
it tangles and snarls in you fingers
as you pull loop through loop.
You drop a stitch, maybe two.
The whole thing starts splitting apart,
one giant run of a plot hole
right down the middle:
in a rage you rip whole rows out,
stitch after stitch after stitch
after painstaking stitch,
back to a place of solid footing
where your plot still made sense.
Don’t give up!
The epic sweater-book is not endless,
it’s coming clear as the ball unravels
and that frayed, fluffy center
creeps closer to your needles.
And yes! It’s straw spun
into gold, the ball made cloth.