The Weave

I bought it to cover the scrapes on the pine,

a rough-woven rope in a straight, ugly line.

But walking to water in the middle of night,

the hemp is a bed of small needles and spite.

It bites at my arches, it pulls at the skin,

letting the grit of the fiber settle in.

When I get to the kitchen, the light is a shock,

showing the brown bits stuck fast to my sock.