The Hooked Rug

Pluck and pull
the dark red wool.
The flames leap up and down.
Her fingers ply the catching hook
till the candle’s eye is brown,

The old. the worn,
outgrown, and torn,
she loops up into flowers.
The heart of summer blooms in the hearth
through the dark of the winter hours.

This is the gown
she wore to town
when her breasts were round as a rose,
and these the rags of all her urchins’
caterpillar clothes.

Hook and pull
the mulberry wool
with dark leaves all around.
A man wears brown, a man wears black,
the color of the ground.

A rug is a wreath
that grows beneath
fingers that pluck and pull.
A woman’s years are rounded all
in rags of soft red wool.

A garden blooms
in a cold room.
Who knows the heart of his wife
whose fingers pull roses of wool
out of the dark of her life?