spools of color surround him
like turrets of a wool castle
he pulls and pokes the yarn loops
into crisscrossing knots to build
width as the pattern shapes length
widowed alone he works every day
in front of his bombed-out home
the expression under his dark eyes
hidden by the first scarf he made
thirteen years ago
after he’d lost everything
here men wear them tightly
around the neck and face
from bad news and cold weather
but on this warm winter morning
it feels different than other
hints of spring
he lowers his scarf and smiles
here comes the first customer
of a strange new day
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