Tuesday, March 25, 2008


Burlap sacks of shorn wool, pungent
Cushions in the porch on which

To perch and tie a boot, until,
Unstuffed, soaked in the tub, hung up,

Carded into batts, pinched and twisted
On the bobbin to the treadle’s

Metric creaking, wound up in skeins
And clews, strung through heddles

And levered by pedals to let
Pass the shooshing shuttle through

The warp to form a weft—or purled
And knitted into patterns, into

Socks and toques and mittens, scarves
And gloves and sweaters, to the metric

Clicking of the needles as my
Mother counted stitches in a row.


Roland said...

One day, when Canada has a culture, you might be our Pushkin.

YLM said...

Gee, Zach, I never thought you were paying attention!