My Writing

Hello, random ball of yarn —

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.

With love,

the one who noticed

Photo by Margarida Afonso on Unsplash