Knots sustain us, keep us this side
of the pale. We sit large in our garden chairs
as she unravels the wool, tying it from the birdbath
to the shed door, from the little slide to the steel
hammock frame, making paths forbidden or permitted,
half hitching, twisting, plaiting, a Borromean calculation
to stop our whole contraption falling apart.
Keep hold, she says, or I won't find my way home.
I wrap the wool three times around my hand.