When I was just a boy, I used to weave
Potholders out of stretchy colored strings
Hooked on a metal frame to which they’d cleave
While my mind idly thought of other things.
What strikes me now, as I compose this verse
Of measured lines stretched out across the page,
Is what I’d done back then was to rehearse
How to make patterns in a kind of cage
As I do now, but in a verbal way
To fabricate a woven artifact
By doing work that seems like play,
Yet with a joy that mere potholders lacked.
Weaving pentameters across the page
Now takes that craft to an exalted stage.