by Johanne Pulker
Two winters of Wednesday afternoons we sit
by the big window, you on one side
me on the other, pricking our fingers only occasionally.
The blood will not show among the vibrant colours of fall.
The running thread is red anyway.
I listen without interest to your accounts
of who’s old and who’s dying,
while we sew, stitch upon stitch.
It’s all told there
and will pass to her grandson
who bears his grandfather’s name,
the one who made the frame
that still holds
stitch after stitch.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2