The Afghan

The afghan that my mother made me
Is made of many other fingers’ doings, too;
Is made of fibers from all corners of the world
All in shades of grey,
Just like our name –

But none are dearer than the swatches
Of cream and mouse colored wool
Shorn from sheep that summered
Up the hill from my childhood home.

Nothing is sweeter than lying
Under the knots and twists
Of love’s work,

Than hearing the bleat
Of familiar sheep in the
Opening meadows of one’s dreams.