It starts like a beige tuft of fibre Protruding from a large burlap sack. As we pull it from the hidden source It gradually reveals itself. Simple and unassuming, A uniform, coloured strand Which we gather up into a tidy ball.
Sometimes another strand is tied Onto the one we pull. A different colour? A change of texture? And so we pull that one anew, We build another coil, While the original strand awaits. The interesting new thread, Reveals itself from the hidden reservoir.
The fibre slides through our fingers. Slowly, when there is resistance. Quicker, when it comes loosely. Now coarse and wiry Now soft and slippery, Now thick and tufted. Tough Scottish highlands perhaps? Or rural Ontario?
Sometimes the hidden source seems like it may be A hand-knit sweater that we are pulling apart. The strands are still kinked and twisted in places, Echoing a memory of a shape it has held for years.
We recognize bits here and there too. Colours and textures from our own story. "I had a pair of socks like that." "Remember our scarves from those cold childhood winters?"
The collection of small skeins increases. From a sheep's fleece, yes, but now too From Alpaca, camel and rabbit. Cashmere from Pashmina goats in Nepal?
But at last the final strand comes free. You feel the weight of the coiled wool, And see the diversity of the colours. And for each coil We remember again how it appeared How it felt. How the strands Came together And apart.