Written piece
Yarn
Emma Neale
New Zealand
About this piece
This poem grew from watching my talented craft-artist friend, Vita Cochran, work on one of her embroidery projects, some years ago now, while we both had very young children. We often talked about how to balance work, artistic aspirations, and family life.
Yarn
While we talk of sons, love,
how the word fretwork
sounds as if it should mean
the mind’s tussle
over careers, art, needs, musts,
my clever friend leans
to her embroidery canvas.
Her red thread shape-shifts
as it loops through
each gap in the mesh,
hypnotic as a flame in pirouette.
First, it is a wave that leaps and pitches.
Next it forms a treble clef
that dwindles, decrescendos
to two small hearts in duet.
They melt to a sign, @,
as if to say any choice
has its cost, until at last,
like a dancer, spent —
the twine lies horizontal,
each stitch a reminder
to take the sweet repair of rest:
there’s strength in a fallow period.