When I was a weaver, I chose
a red silk thread to get me to the heart
of my creation and then back out,
across the loom, to whatever life was waiting.
And when you found the little red pathway,
buried between warp and woof, you were sure
you'd found a flaw. Please remember what happens
when there's no exit. Years of breathing
wool dust, reeking of lanolin, staring into coils
of green yarn and blue—you go dumb.
You've heard the story a thousand times—
that trapped fox, whining and snuffling
then biting her paw
through the bone, and running off into the night.
The mind wants this: a door in the wall,
an open field, a narrow path
through the woods, an open field
Copyright © 2011 by Helen Wickes
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission