Art by Norman E. Masters
|This is the way one spins.|
Yesterday I remembered...
I stopped the car to let them pass,
the sheep, a tight massed bobbing tide,
moving from some dark winter waiting place
to grass, to drop their new Spring lambs.
The soft, soiled flow encompassed me,
and as each gentle face pushed past,
the dark eyes briefly meeting mine
were patient wise with knowing.
Nasha! With young life's joy
still shining on your small black face,
you tumbled through the back door of my mind
intent to suckle morning's first warm bottle.
The sun shafts golden in a winter room,
cutting the bare dark boards with light,
the hand upon the wheel, moves,
the foot upon the treadle, treads,
until the separate rhythms blend;
the fingers play out long soft lags of wool,
the outer eye intent upon the running twist of thread,
the inner eye beholds the green of all past Springs,
the mind, caught in the singing whir, suspends,
and time, in floating motes of long laid dust, dissolves,
as fashioned now the chaff and straw,
heaped at the threshold of an emptied room,
the shining fibers of another year
upon the swiftly turning bobbin, end.
And it is always thus, one spins.