The bigger couch, suitable
for taking long siestas with Bou by my feet
is covered with a synthetic blanket
and an old woolen sheet on top.
The second cover – indefinably beige-
can’t be better washed, yet it preserves
the yellowish breath of its past.
The halogen heater plays with
its persisting tones as it rotates,
180 degrees churning decades,
thread after thread after thread
And when its colour is butter yellow,
I can see the hands that weaved it,
young and strong, knowing
this particular tint surfacing,
is a mixture of reflections
of her red hair, the continual turn
of her head to the left
then back to the right
as she firmly operated the loom,
and I sense wool was not
the only thing woven into.
to my late grandmother