Static and Pills

The heater clicks and gasps against the frost

that’s etching ferns across the kitchen pane.

I found the wool I thought was long ago lost

in a box that’s smelling faintly of the rain.

It still holds on to woodsmoke and the cold,

though time has chewed the edges of the cuff.

It’s stretched and tired and getting very old,

but I can't seem to say I’ve had enough.

I pick the little pills from underarms,

those tiny knots of fiber and of grit.

It’s lost its shape and all its softer charms,

but God, I still feel human wearing it.