Eight years is not quite a decade. But perhaps I'll round up. It has been a long time since I spilled out words instead of winding up my thoughts and feelings into skeins for storage away from the tender parts. Tangled and tightened, wrapped and biting into fingers. Burning and cutting through skin. Instead of weaving, the weft was taken off the frame and wound away.
Neat boxes of spun fibers. Art yarn. Twisted and spun so each fiber secures the next.
Now I guess it's time to weave, knit, sew, braid, loom. Forgive the dropped stitches and spliced yarns. It's not for show, this tapestry of self. Forgive the uneven gauge an loose ends. It will be alright in the end.
