After a trip to galway, first day of Irish Spring with dear Madeleine. A bag of new yarns acquired and memories coming back to me as I crochet along these days.
Memories of first stitches and little hands finding my way, finding rhythm, even harmony in what seemed a discordant world. xx
I have not spun all my yarns?
Only winter's are done.
A web is always to be worked
A golden spider weaves in golden silk
I must remember that
Now, in me it seems
Living in me, in and out of my suitcases and baskets too, I have found her a home
That needs to be brought out to the dewy morn and the bright sun.
Wools, yarns and ribbons, some dust that settled.
There is me, at eight years old,
and fabric made from a hook and my hand.
A smile that is all my own.
I am returned like Spring
Or like fire that is set in an old place, to bring life back to the house.
Crackle and flame and dance
Tears fell on new material, made by my joy to work
and to spin
My pencil moves from word to circle to color in ink, to hook and yarn.
Is there no stopping me?
Good, I am alive then.
I picked up my daughter from school
she roared at me for taking her from the swing
She roared her way into Spring.
Like the river with last nights rain, on its first day out.
Like Stravinsky's Rites, hard and deep she wailed till we both cried and let go of the banks
like rivers glad of some rocks to mould.
She moved and I too moved by her face soften.
Are we not already old from this?
How many times round?
No, you would think such hurt would age you
But cup your hands in the stream to wash away tears
wash your face in the cool, and you begin again
Webs form from the rocks to the hazel branches where jewel drops are between the lamb's tails
They reflect us all in the forest
worked round and round and in and out and round again
They show me
there is work to be done
A fire to make, bread to bake,
love to open every door with golden light beaming
To a room, where a child will learn to hook her yarn through another's hands again.
To make her own fabric.