I wish that I could crochet in the bath.
I would lie a board across the ledges, if I had one long enough
As my fingers intertwined in the soft wool
Little water droplets would settle
Like frozen tears of glass.
That would just be for a moment, before it grew heavy
and sodden.
I've read like that before,
the pages have become crispy and smudged
That shows love and warmth
But wet wool seems cold and miserable.
If I dropped a needle in the water it would become rusty,
Useless and uncomfortable.
I would crochet in the bath, but I don't think I could find a board long enough.