Saturday, March 28, 2009


Mighty and tall,
I stand watch in solitude,
listening to strains of Enya
coming from the kitchen,
her voice keeping syncopated time
with the slow chug of my Lady Kenmore.
It's grey and drizzling outside
and I am felting wool:
transforming individually woven
wooly stitches
of soft jewel colors.
I diligently keep watch,
transfixed,
periodically dunking my hand
into the sudsy brew,
waiting for the soggy lump
to morph into something
else.

It is not often that I
orchestrate transformation.

More often,
I sit,
wee
and inconsequential,
watching
nature
take
its
course.
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