Within the Weft

My sister and my mother,
with flashing needles paired,
have learned the art of knitting
and gift us with their wares.

Their talent I admire,
yet, I choose a different means.
From wooden loom and whimsy,
I weave material needing seams.

Though sewing's not my forte,
I give it my best shot
and splice together pieces
'til a sweater's born -- "Jackpot!"

I gift you with this sweater
Wrapped around my papered words.
The sweater can be held and felt
Though my voice cannot be heard.

I know you have a style
And southwestern it is not.
Southwestern, though, will bring to you
All that you forgot.

The South is the home
Of your joyous child within.
The one who finds the humor
When life gets hard and grim.

The West is the region
Of mother bear’s dark cave.
The grandest place in psyche
To emotionally sort and save.

The colors of this sweater
You may not like so much.
Though the softness and the warmth, my dear,
Will remind you of my touch.

This sweater is too big for you.
This was done intentionally,
So when you‘re snuggled deep within,
You’ll feel a hug from me.