This old sweater,
white ribbed wool,
heavy with
times we’ve spent together,
the patterned puffs,
and yarn stitched lines,
a myth I’m told,
but tell my friends is true,
were first used as family signs,
so those Aron sailors
washed ashore were known.
Its gentle itch next to my skin,
welcome unlike others,
an alive touching friend
recalling worn past ways:
love, lying rumpled by me on the floor,
cold wet tear soaked days,
wind tickled times blowing joy,
soft over a blaze inside me,
its thick white cables tied,
to memories from the deep.