Bolts of cloth,
one stacked on the other:
without meaning to be,
a picture of peace,
a memory of grandmothers’ feather beds.
than soaking in the strange zen,
their aura, something
only you can feel,
and only in this moment.
About this poem
I can’t sew a lick. But I’ve always loved going into fabric stores and seeing the patterns and colors. A poor man’s museum perhaps.
It began when my mother used to take me to Joanne’s Fabrics as a small boy, and it continues to this day. I have a friend, Maria Wulf, who is a fabric artist and when I get to visit her studio I can stand and look at the piles of cloth for what probably seems, to outsiders, a bit too long of a time. This particular stack of cloth was at the Shaker Villiage in Stockbridge, Mass.