Yarn

Yarn can be both friend and foe.
A miracle when loops lead to something —
a scarf, baby blanket, fingerless mitts.
An un-miracle when stuffed in the darkness
with other abandoned skeins of possibility.

I ripped it all out yesterday —
so fast to undo, so slow to re-start.
To begin again without shame
takes resolve, weaving the scent
of last night’s fire into new rows.

When the cat plays with yarn,
his focus makes me jealous,
but also the playfulness.
He doesn’t care how it ends,
un-responsible for any outcomes.

I know how to make some things,
but not how to unmake a total
tangled mess. Joyfully errant
rows of fuchsia at night wake up
a blob of awfulness in the morning.

I ignore flawed ribbing, pretending
this path is possible until it must
(again) be completely unwound. Hope
still lurks that a single strand can transform
into something warm, crafted, and whole.