Spool of Wool

I have been the insufferable know‑it‑all,
the do‑it‑nothing wanderer
collecting ideas like souvenirs
placing them in torn pockets
of a crumpled shirt.

My creativity was summoned
from the closet.
brittle naphthalene balls
tumbled out like seeds,
strangely fragrant.

Misplaced courage in the safe
coaxed me for a touch.
It warmed in my hands,
like sunrise caught in a fistful of sand.

I reached out for the needle box
buried beneath spool of wool.
Tiny shards of resolve
backstitched me and my shirt.