Spinning yarns

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old chair on cabin porch

I sit at my great-grandmother’s knee on the porch of her old farmhouse. A tangle of wool sheared from her Cheviots sheep, dyed a bright yellow from sedge grass I gathered last fall, is wound loosely around my hands.

She lifts the wool from my outstretched arms, twisting the yarn into a small ball of itchy sunshine. As she works, she tells me stories, words slipping through her lips as the thread slips through her fingers.

I listen spellbound as she spins yarns and weaves tales, our lives forever interwoven, an intricate tapestry of wool and words, youth and years.

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  1. Oh this is so full of imagery and the magic of a beautifully flowing stream. I absolutely love this, because I am hooked from the start and sad that it was not longer. Although, the length is great. It is just that you quickly spoiled me with the tale, so I wanted more. This is so rich with warmth. Thank you so much!

    Liked by 1 person

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