The wind drives us forward.
A little spin and we’re pulled
as thread into a skein, the skein
into cotton, the cotton into a scarf,
the scarf into a cowl. Gandhi once sat,
not speaking, only spinning. One thread
unbroken for nine hours. How long
would I have lasted? Here, it’s almost
half past three. Children spill
out of school doors, pulling peacoats
on top of cardigans. Are those leaves
poking through the brown fretwork?
The clock’s hands never run the other way.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.