A strand of cashmere string and sticks bamboo,
I’m drawn to them as moths are to a flame,
Each season I begin to knit anew,
With complex weavings on and off the grain.
You’d think by now my family would refrain
escaping oohs and ahs as gifts are opened,
My heart is warmed as I relive again,
Those fireside eves of crafting for betokened.
It seems my friends and guides were oft misspoken,
Biddies, crows, whose children and their babes,
Cared not well for handmade, family tokens,
Though fingers cracked and splintered on the way.
These feet of clay collapse, and bones may wilt,
It’s grand to see them crawl ‘neath Grandma’s quilt.
Written for the Sunday Whirl, which after a long hiatus, has returned with another batch of interesting words to incorporate into poetry.