Color to Cloth

Recycled wool splits the eye
of the hooking needle
to be plied into dragon rugs,
yellow scales rescued
from forgotten mittens.

The Spirit of the Lamb
spins the wheel
that brought these fibers
to my mother's hands.

Long coats of depression and
pants legs of sub-zero temperatures
find themselves in rose bush
or sea gull wing.

Bankers hang her carousel carpets
between sweeping surveillance cameras,
Turkish blue talismans soar
above Hopi sand snakes.

Taking the task of color to cloth
she'd soak and steam
a single sock to strain
strands of charcoal shade.

Investigating the promise of flight
these woven shreds afford,
I sit on my rug from Ma,
consecrating the umbilical skein
of heirlooms.
Will SchmitComment