Ancient Arts
By Margaret Zacharias
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Sometimes I need the homely handcrafts, Stitching and weaving, two sticks and a string. While new babies knit in their mothers’ wombs On snowy days when the sun won't smile, When rains overwhelm the riverbanks, and Mountains of lava slide into the sea. Some days my hands fly with music soaring. Some nights I cry with a hanky box nearby. Often, I simply count stitches and rows. They bring purpose to my hours, weeks, and years On Planet Earth, as they have for countless, Ghostly generations. Through the freezing, And the melting, from ice age to ice age, Through wars and plagues and domino empires, People were working, quietly counting, Praying with hope, and patiently stitching. I live for a while just slowly enough To turn my energy into matter. How does the cotton ball grow in its boll? How do the sheep re-engender their wool? How did the silk worms keep their secret for More than four thousand years? Who designed Those intermittent sticky spots that catch And stretch elixirs into clothing for kings? Were the scarves ever worn, that a child knit, In sympathy for her missing father Who lived in the deep north woods far away? Did the clever hats and crocheted sweaters, That occupied grandmothers into wise Old age, create shy embarrassments For the grandchildren who inspired them? Did the prayer shawl I made for my cousin Help to comfort her at all, while she died Of cancer and left young children behind? But still, I love the rainbow fibers and The textures of my soft and springy yarns, As they twist with obedience into Their patterns at my fingertip command. I love blossoming blankets that fatten To keep someone precious warm. I even Love the intricate stitches that create Ridiculous fingerless mittens and gloves. Although I know my stash provides beyond Any human lifetime, I carry on. I dip my spindle, circle the swift, sing While I weave my own fair share of shuttle Into this warp of Life. I persevere To serve the tapestry with faith; so when An angel of death appears and mortal Ties seem fully severed, one sturdy thread Of loving prayer, that runs clear through, Endures. |
