A thought of you,
Ran through my mind,
And left its woolly coat behind,
Draped on a chair,
Belonging there,
Merino, cashmere, satin-lined.

It’s oversized,
To match your smile,
Methinks I’ll wear it, for a while,
Of worsted shrugs,
And winter hugs,
And perfect living, cafe style.

If purl and knit,
Could but conceive,
Your life would spring forth from the weave,
A yarn in felt,
Cinched by a belt,
A complex fashion few achieve.

But this remains,
A phantom thread,
Entwined by needles in my head,
The thread re-caked,
A thought half-baked, for
Alas, I am alone instead.

Bryson Thomas