Monday, October 20, 2014


Or, "I'm struggling to find the words I'd use to express how great you all are."

Poised high o'er treadle of a spinning-wheel,
My foot's held up from falling for the choice
Of which of wooly colors I shall thread
To spin the skein that's equal to the ask.

A ruddy red, cerulean, a green
To knock your eyes about, and yellow gold
Are so competitive to suit my want
I fluster, flee to fleece but find it bland.

A silky black at last goes leaping to
The hook, to shear in anxious sheets to thread,
But cast it back! For little would I read
The somber sable suitable to say.

But still the wheel goes spinning-- has it gone
On so, for such a time as I delayed?
The spindle pumping vigorously round,
The unattended trotter, keen to tread.

Though long had clattered out the vacant port
Accomp'nied by the action of the deed
A skein with not a thread there to report,
In spinning nothing much at all, I said.

Dedicated somewhat clumsily but lovingly to Etta Ruth Weigl, 1922 - 2014

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