Weave while the yarn is wet
before the red turns black and crusted like my grandfather’s truck
before the fibers stiffen and hold your work in it’s place
(regardless of completion)
I want you to stitch it now,
while you don’t need tears to loosen it
while it’s early enough to be a scarf a shawl a blanket a tablecloth or even a rug.
Lay your bricks while your mortar is fresh
before piccolo bones and tangled reason cement you
before the engraver chips out your name and dates
(you will be stuck)
I want you to build your castle,
while your muscles can bear it
while you have companions to fill your hallways with light.
Write while your pen still bleeds
before the trip to buy more ink is a chore
before family robs your stationary
(they surely will)
I want to read your narrative,
while memory still prances
while they still let you speak at your party.