We wear our clothes more lightly now. Before they were the stuff of dreams, of etiquette, critical to being. Now more lightly tossed around, elegantly worn. The thread’s a thinner silk and colours more reminiscent of the jungle than industrial complexes. We stand and admire the vestments of another no longer threatened that our own may pale.
We wear our clothes more lightly and it’s a relief to Man and Earth.
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Love left it shapely for a time, plummy, too big to fit your arms around. And now so small to be thinner than a mouse’s supper.
But better. Arms would have simply tired and mouse needs to eat more than I.
You kept it well though: threads, mice, suppers – managed to thread, sew and weave in a tapestry I thought crude, while making a hash of my own.
The threads were the finest that I’ll still contend, but the loom was faulty and guidelines not parallel. Causes problems further down the line
I’m not aware how it got fixed but you kept threading all the time. Sweet angel, no show, no dance but beautifully woven.
I see it now.
But too late. Too late.
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