There is no finer wool than from the Donegal mills
and Irish weavers are world famous for Donegal tweed.

Here is a wool tapestry where skilled hands have stitched
red berries with the dark blue of a storm sea and the golden

fields of winter potatoes into a grass green background.
Berries “once off the bush, the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh

would turn sour” or intoxicating. Potatoes when fermented
also turn sour or intoxicating. But a wool carpet might last

a life time, unchanged. “Between my fingers and my thumb
the squat pen rests” with hopes my poems would last, never turn

sour or intoxicating. But then I wonder why we are so enamored with
perpetuity when we are but time’s imprisoned quarry of linear impermanence.