A gray thread dangles from a frayed sweater over a dishpan,
the sleeve unraveling, soaked, victim of domestic imperatives.
Tug it, roll it to cuff and forget the fine strand lacks integrity.
Is this the one that holds all, that binds warp and weave into a fabric that serves?
Fibers bind, shape and capture, stitch by stitch, purl through filament,
give contour to the nebulous, utility to the just pretty,
sculpting a dream dancing in the head.
Libertine colors in dissolute revelry are beguiled into pattern,
seamed and woven, hemmed, tucked here and puckered there.
Wools envelop absconding heat when ice rims frosted windows,
our private radiances captured in more elegant fashion beneath Irish,
Alpaca and Cashmere.
Soft silks, sleek satins and Egyptian cotton coddle and cool,
caressing skin in weightless luxury.
Electronic threads in glass and wire beget mutuality, desired or not,
where conflict and reconciliation are bound in an unruly choreography,
one move displacing another’s tenuous hold.
Threads order the random, impulsive act
as duty binds judgment at the service of hollow conceits,
where war has its senseless way.
The sleeve unrolled,
household obligations done,
a thread falls to hang.
Really enjoyed your piece on memory in the Pioneer this morning. Prompts me to read more of your work on this site. Thanks for joining the illustrious history of Proust and others.