Over forty years ago, I worked on a sheep farm in New Zealand for several months. One of the things that came from that job was a gorgeous hand made sweater which I have worn A LOT. Although it is very hard, it is now time to return it to the earth and use it as mulch in the garden. I hope this poem helps to convene how very special it was and still is to me.
Ode to a Hand-Spun Sweater (1983)
You were born of lanolin hands
and wind that rolled across New Zealand hills.
I remember the sheep —
their steady breath in the morning chill,
the weight of fleece against my arms,
the rhythm of the wheel as I spun
their softness into story.
I twisted you from raw wool and memory,
fed you through patient fingers,
and watched you gather strength
one strand at a time.
Then Jan —
with the quiet wisdom of a farm wife —
turned my yarn into cables and crossing lines,
Irish knots like winding country roads,
each stitch holding something I did not yet know I would miss.
You have known rain.
And barn dust.
And ferry crossings.
You have warmed me through homesickness
and long winters and years I did not yet understand were golden.
Your elbows thinned before mine did.
Your cuffs softened.
You carried the shape of my shoulders
as faithfully as any friend.
Now you are threadbare in places,
tired in the way well-loved things become.
But how do you retire a season of your life?
How do you fold away
youth, sheep breath, and meadows?
You were never just wool.
You were work.
You were pride.
You were the girl I was in 1983 —
stronger than she knew.
Rest now, old friend.
The wind lives on between your threads,
and what you held, I will carry still.
Photo Credit: Kim Magee Photography