These lines in her memory ve biesia Wit Meant for my mother She gave me skeins of wool' To hold out (like a priest at Mass), With stern rubrics' not to fidget, while she Wound it into a ball, unwinding me, Unravelling my hands and arms, checking My lapses with a gentle tug When I wandered off through images¹ Her chat had made, for though She kept the line between us taut She kept my heart at ease with all her talk. And when her ball compacted grew, And my few strands fell limp away, I knew there was no loss, for she Would knit it back again to fit me perfectly. But richer still, I see today these lines are drawn out from me To knit through this faltering verse A thread of memory Time has pulled away from consciousness, 10
Type of this poem.
