I sit here in my bundle, 
all coiled up as thread. 

The dye is red with flecks of orange, 
and the unspooling
is only ever in my head. 

The hands that hold me 
click and clack with soft delight. 
Some are old and rough-- 
Some are young and nimble--
but I love them just the same. 

You pull and push 
and dream for me. 
I’ve seen your imaginings 
and desires set free. 

I wish I could be a sweater,
some mittens, 
a well-worn hat--
anything more 
than I am. 

But once I am made into a garment, 
no longer am I me, 
but I am dead. 

I wish that I could keep you warm--
I wish that I could hold you tight--

But alas, 
I am doomed to be
merely thread.