How is it that a rock is found
by the river and kept in the pocket,
a treasure for ages, but
you are left to sit alone
a bright pink
on the table, forgotten?
How long have you been forgotten?
Who was the last to use you and
spin you into something new?
You are a maker made of gentle dreams;
strung together, they are strong.
Have you fallen from a grandmother’s chair,
landing with a soft thump? Have you waited
for the cat to paw you across the floor?
Have you graced an old woman’s curled fingers
crafting a blanket for her little princess?
Her heart is pink – in five years, she’ll paint her nails black,
and she will forget you.
The more you spin, the less you become
the more you make them happy, keep them warm, cozy
the more string you give, the smaller you are.
Is that why you found your way here,
because you know that soon you will fade away,
existing only in the nervous tug of a sweater
the cozy dreams of a pink princess
a grandmother’s hat for young ones?
As you decay, they grow. And maybe that’s enough for you.
the one who noticed