Measuring Poem by Ann Mckeeman

from my nose to the length of my arm
the old ways are often best...
(i sit in the dim light of evening and measure the lengthening of days...)
within the fabric of my existence, i am confined, ragged edges dipping low on the ground...
dragging in the damp full earth of fall...
(and the stains just blend into the greys and browns of time...)
once i thought to dissect a pattern from this bolt i hold and now...
...now i've carefully folded it, back upon itself...laying it upon my knees in the gathering dark
unwilling to place it where it needs to go...the image of what it might be, still holds me...
and i find i have no scissors...and it makes no difference
...as this is silk and i shall need wool for the coming winter storms...