milkweed blows my mind -- again

So a funny thing happened.

Well not funny exactly --
more--
mind expanding?
I dunno. 
It was cool though--
at least-- 
eventually.
At first --
 not so much.

As you may recall,
last week on the blog post
I was blissing out about
my recent Milkweed immersion--
 feeling, I can now say,
 just a teensy bit smug.

"Yay! Look at me 
with my newly fashioned
minimalist distaff 
and cross arm spindle
making all kinds
of super nice yarn
out of Milkweed garden waste!
I love it soooo much.
It's almost like
Flax!"

Well, smug and thrilled.

At any rate,
practically the moment 
I pushed 'send' on the newsletter 
to let you know that the post was ready
(assuming you're on my mailing list),
I grabbed my beloved tools
and raced outside--

--only for the Milkweed
to... ah...
well, I'll let it
​speak for itself.

Just so you know,
it said
as my spindle fell to the ground
for the third time in a row, 
I'm not Flax.

"Huh?" said I--
picking up the spindle
​and checking for cracks.

Oh, I have nothing against the stuff --
it continued without pause.
It's great! 
Super strong -- soft-- agreeable--
a distant cousin of mine. 
Slightly more uniform
since you all have been
manipulating for centuries
(or maybe it, you),
to suit your belief
in efficiency and production.
I mean --
all those precise tools
with their satisfying names:
rippling combs, flax breaks, 
 scutching  knives, hackles and such,
that keep everyone in line.

It's just -- I'm not it. 

Now, I can see why 
you might think it reasonable
to think of me as such--
and maybe even believe
it is a compliment. 

​I mean --
I am a bast fiber 
and you have been 
doing your best
I'm sure,
what with your strick
and your combing
​and your carding of 'waste'--

your plying and measuring,
your calculation of yards per pound,
your dreaming of ends per inch,
and interior assignment
​of relative 'goodness'
influencing plans
for sizing the strands
to 'tame' the stray 
ends that stick out of the skeins. 
​
And you've got to admit
I've been pretty agreeable.
As I said, 
I am bast 
and a certain kind of order
works with my nature.
​
So don't think I don't 
​appreciate the attention
​and effort.

It's just --
well --
doesn't smooth, creamy cordage,
twisted an inch at a time,
without tension,
​(yours or mine),
suit us both
​much better?

Well, doesn't it?

​It's not just the pace--
(though really, what IS the hurry-
after all the fun we've had
playing hide and seek
amidst my stalks and outer bark,
getting to know each other
​a strand at a time,
do you really want 
to be done so soon?)

Nor is it entirely 
my ego--
though I have to admit
I like my every fiber
to be admired
and used--
no matter its length--

--even when you are
'zooming'
or 
'telephoning'
with your friends.

It's -- well--
I was kind of hoping
you might see
that "productive plant" thinking,
is not always the last word.

​I mean we all know
you homo sapiens
with your big old brains,
are champion tool makers --
efficient and clever and all that--
and I'm sure your spindles
and what have you
have enhanced your life
no end--

---

​--but is it necessary
to PROVE it all the time?
To worship control? 
To make sure every plant 
is named and categorized,
and succumbs to your will
by giving up its whole, diverse community
and all its marvelous friends
only to exist henceforward
​in rows
with other genetically identical plants
as if only then
will it have validity---
and, dare I say it,
​use?

Or, conversely,
to relegate wild plants
to fairy tales
as though 
a relationship with one
is not an everyday sort of pleasure
to be enjoyed,
but rather a thing associated
with excessive female power
and curses
and thus,
once more
a thing to be subdued
​or eliminated
(not that one doesn't relish 
the plant power of  cousin Nettle
I mean -- who wouldn't)?

Must you,

continued the strands
 draped across my lap,
perhaps forgetting
​that I was even there,

 tame all the wild places
and cut back every prickly being
so you don't get scratched by the thorns 
that are there to create little privacy--
and maybe keep you out of  ki's  business
for five seconds?

Or are you capable
only
of listening to (and believing)
 the chatter
in your own big brain
(equally good, it seems
at making you feel like a total loser
and the cleverest of all),
 while hardly noticing
the odd bit of wisdom
a little plant
that is not flax,
might have?
​
Just saying. 

Something to consider. 

"Thanks," said I.
"I will--
​consider, that is."

And while we're at it,

added the loquacious fiber,
not quite as an afterthought,

how about taking
a big old breath
of hot summer air--
and having a sip of tea--
for life is short,
and here we are,
​together,
listening to the wind
and relishing the miracle
of your opposable thumb.

"Ok," said I
dipping my fingers
in a dish of coolish water
and adding a long white  strand
to the ever-growing puddle 
​of cordage in my lap. 
​
"All right."