My mind is a tangle of threads. I have blue fabric, and red, and I want to find a way to sew pieces together for winter work. For the darkest months, I’ll be the one by the fire, basket beside me, stitching.
In the night, awake, so many possibilities. Vertical strips, bands of solid colour between broken lines of blue. Or regular rows, like corn, like plantations of trees. Wild scribbles like geese?
Take down the old carpenter square from the workshop. Bring out the green cutting mat. Let the fabric sit until it begins to talk.
Swimming my slow kilometre this morning in the blue pool, I see only one or two deep red leaves left on the Japanese maples by the big windows. I am swimming up and down my favourite lane. Back and forth, pausing at one point because of turbulence splashing my face. Disruptions of water. I am thinking of nothing. I am thinking of blue cotton, of red, cutting them, the blood flow in my body pulsing in my ears. I am swimming the blue lane, eyes open to the ceiling, a kind of loose stitching, blue water, my own dark blood.