Driving home at 5pm, east over the bridge,
whitecaps on the water like crisp meringue peaks,
cumulo-nimbus clouds stacked up against the Cascade
foothills, scattered & assorted blue patches.
The shifting of the season now inhabits my brain
and with it there surges again that old desire
for change, for creation, for all things
beautiful and inspired.
Purchased two yards of ecru 100% linen
and two yards of black/ecru pinstripe linen/rayon blend.
Unfolded the pattern and studied the cutting layout,
each a-b-c step. Wondered: where in Heck
are all my sewing notions? (I know quite well
where all my other notions reside, and it's nowhere near Heck.)
At the other house, ferreted away in the garage,
most likely, in a box marked "useless sewing stuff."
It's been at least ten years since I stitched anything
other than the simple line of a cotton tablecloth
(fabric purchased at the foot of Montmartre).
And then it was probably a costume for one of the boys:
wizard, dinosaur, scarecrow.
Now suddenly this old lovely ache
of putting fingers to fabric, feeding it
inch-by-slow-inch under the machine's insistent needle.
A garment assembled inside-out, right-side-in,
all parts exposed, unraveling, clipped.
A dangle of thread. Seam-ripper, hopefully, neglected
in its green tin box marked New Home.