The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-24 09:14:49 -

The Wistful Grid

You have the shears. Keep them in your pocket. Do not let him see them. 14 November. The frost has taken the lower fields. The wool is stiff, brittle, snapping under the comb like dry twigs. My hands are raw, the skin split and weeping, but the loom is warm. It is a strange warmth, not the heat of a fire, but the deep, pulsing heat of a living thing. The thread hums. I have written about this...

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