Gathering Wool

Anytime, when the wind dies down,
or even when the moon is full,
when music flows from simple sound,
it’s time to gather wool.

Following pools of brighter light,
from one to another and on,
all for the improvement of sight,
and listening for snippets of song,

When flow has turned off-aligned,
people will talk, unraveling day and way;
all is valuable wool, left behind,
knowledge for plucking, as you may.

Life’s bushes, brambles and thickets catch
this knowing, framed in time and set,
just waiting for a mind whose match
is equal in need for it to be met,

Thence to be combed, carded and spun
into threads to be warp/weft woven
into tapestry mantles, to be won
—not bought—by the fittingly behoven.

Opening the senses to signs and sound,
even gooseflesh may be destined to pull;
tuned to low band, treasure may be found
by simply gathering wool.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen