Late night keys dangle in the wind
clouds move along the sky river
wind swirls low to pick up anything
not tied down, not held down
There goes her hat!
The thing that will keep her warm tonight
stomped by feet of shoppers, rejected as trash
her hat, made for one head.
Rain wets it. Street oil soaks it.
She crosses into traffic, leaps toward the gift knitted
a story just for her. Grandmother’s poem rings
as fingers reach for the flying thread
as long as a blood vein
-Shannon P. Laws