Weavers And Knitters Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Holes in the air
are filled up
by darning and darts,
edges of air
still unhemmed.

Screens of outside
Cotton fabric
spread into tentacles
of lose fibers

hanging down
like old men's gray
sideburns
falling off
from wiggled hands
in a barber's shop.

I peek again through
an expanding
window pane squeezed
into a narrow breadth.

And see threads
pulled down
from lumps of scrolls
unfolding
a thousand white
and cream threads.

Amid baby breath
flowers poured down
as white ribbons
festooning air with cream,

white threads
unwound
and tossed down
fall slowly, slowly

from bobbins
above trees
and tall sky-poking
roofs boring high air

and a low sky
to leak, more threads
shot down
in dots
and falling dashes.

(ii)

Tailors at work
handle needles and pins,
twisting fingers
pulling white fibers
down to swing
in lower sky and air

Weaving,
embroidering
and stitching

more cream
cotton to stretch
out in woven sheets,

cashmere pullovers
and sweater vests won
by cold folks.

(iii)

All folded up into cocoons,
as they await
tailors and knitters

to hurry up
with orders held up
by cream hairy air.

Gated with screens
of snow dumped down
by thick feathers
of snow spat out

by a hollow alabaster
covering earth
with a white
swinging umbrella

tying arms
in living rooms and cafes
into knots of warmth,
and unseen threads

knit, sew, weave
and embroider
star-shooting
eyes into each other.

For everything that clasps
with a gluing warmth,

air the fat-trunked candle
burning with a flame
swallowed by fog,

while we wear its thin hairs
of wool hanging down,
as we wait
for weavers and knitters.