for Pema Chödrön

When you are cold and put on a sweater,

notice how good it feels. And then, perhaps,

wish for everyone cold to have a sweater,

cashmere or mohair, hand-knit with reindeer

leaping across the chest, or little pearl buttons,

or leather patches on the elbows.

For some, perhaps a stick of gum in the pocket

or those coffee nips my mother loves

to roll around in her mouth like Demosthenes.

Or the phone number of a girl with a

ponytail and a walk that makes you think of deer

running up a green hill on a misty morning.

Or maybe not. Maybe just the sweater,

a crewneck with the letter L found in a free box

outside the health food store in Plymouth.

One sleeve’s unravelling, but it’s plenty big.

And if, when you’ve got them all zipped up,

down to the last kid in a hooded jersey,

you’ve worked up a sweat,

then shed your cardigan, aware

of how good it feels to cool off.

And wish the same for all

who are too warm, the pleasure

of removing their V-necks,

dropping their lump of wool by the bed

or folding it neatly over the back

of a wooden chair.

For the very young and very old who need help

to peel the knitted sleeves from their arms—

even a small dog in a smart tartan plaid—

you desire that they may be relieved of their pullovers.

And for each soul who’s stuck sweating in a turtleneck—

as he’s stumbling to catch a bus,

as she’s shoving wet clothes in the drier,

jiggling a fussy baby on one hip,

because he’s paralyzed and his attendant ran out

for cigarettes and beer—may you be willing

to draw their humid breath into your own

lungs, if only for a moment, and may this

close heat, which you do not want,

steam open the folds of your heart.

∞

From the Spring 2004 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 20, No. 2)

© 2004 Ellen Bass