The Flaw from Issue 69/70
The best thing about a hand made pattern
is the flaw.
Sooner or later in your hand-loomed rug
among the squares and flattened triangles,
a little red nub will soar above a blue field,
or a purple cross will sneak up among
the neat border.
The flaw we live by, the wrong bit of floss
that wreaths among the uniform strands
and, because it does not match,
makes a red bird fly,
turns that blue field into a sky.
It is almost, after long silence, a word
spoken aloud, a hand saying through the flaw;
I’m alive, discovered by your eye.