04-24-2018, 01:59 PM
The ravell’d sleeve
A bleak and rocky land, without a trace
of shelter, comfort; just a rising road
reminds it’s not my first time in this place.
The last thing she was knitting, packed and stowed
before dementia claimed her finally:
a scarf for me. I finger it like code.
Just plain, in rows, and anyone can see
the missing stitches caught up wrong, or split,
or slipped and dropped, to ravel endlessly.
She sent a sweater once, that didn’t fit,
one arm four inches longer than the other.
My winter coat and gloves take care of it
in this bleak rocky land without a trace
of her who left me stranded in this place.
A bleak and rocky land, without a trace
of shelter, comfort; just a rising road
reminds it’s not my first time in this place.
The last thing she was knitting, packed and stowed
before dementia claimed her finally:
a scarf for me. I finger it like code.
Just plain, in rows, and anyone can see
the missing stitches caught up wrong, or split,
or slipped and dropped, to ravel endlessly.
She sent a sweater once, that didn’t fit,
one arm four inches longer than the other.
My winter coat and gloves take care of it
in this bleak rocky land without a trace
of her who left me stranded in this place.