Well, at least according to good friend Art:
when new life is being made,
It looks quite like long strands of nylon coming together, and falling apart.
It swims through linen: a thousand pats on the back, an arrowhead stitch,
Whereby needle soars through well-considered criss-cross,
Counts its own cotton count, and considers itself to be rather rich.
Oh, and it is knotted, over and again, blood clot, knot, the finite levels of ink in a pen.
All this, at the site of fledgling tapestry’s very own embroidered hem –
and at the very place where its time will surely arrive at its end. –
See, though you revel now, in all your own intricacies, in your happening-to-be made of the finest polyester blends:
[Take heed of this warning, young crimson line:]
Be careful with which other threads you entangle yourself, for at a certain point, you will surely find:
That there was only so much space for you here, to begin with, even amid spacious circular hoop.
So be courteous to fellow diamond knots, and be wise with which archways you choose to loop.
Now, for this one, I have chosen to use warm colours, autumnal hues.
Should I have, instead, chosen the palette of spring – with all her pinks, and all her blues?
No, I choose autumn. Her gentle fury,
her gorgeous wrath.
Yes. for in the leaves’ least beloved season, nature doth make art of time running out, and then:
Life that finds itself dying, decaying, shows hope of waiting, willing, to begin itself again.
Needle glides gleefully, and with victory, through eye.
But look a little closer; see all the frayed ends. Know that, to get here, it did take a few disgruntled tries.
Ten times already autumnal tapestry has pricked my thumb.
But, regardless, we do go on. an invisible thimble: my fingers, at this point, are already numb.
Needle sinks beneath satin surface once again, then comes right back up for air.
Twenty minutes later, fabric blankness is replaced by pine trees. Back stitch. Now there are daisies everywhere.
Very soon, dear thread, you will meet your knot – the end,
For now, however, you have been given permission to continue to lose yourself, over and over again.
But know that, one day, the hoop will be lifted. Worm’s meat shall be made of me, and
Domestic cushions – pretty, silent – of you.
But in the meantime, fear not, fair needle – you are almost invincible.
A deluded thought, and yet at least somewhat true.
For now, almost-done tapestry, may you find beauty in it – in loss, and in wonder,
And fear not the little sewing scissors, that, someday, almost effortlessly, will
cast thee and all thy silky threads asunder.
It will wrap itself over and again, around your heart.
running stitch and
catch up with you. It will tear you apart.