This Old Sweater

This old sweater,

white ribbed wool,

heavy

with times we’ve spent together,

the patterned puffs ,

and yarn stitched lines,

by myth I’m told,

but tell my friends as true,

were first used as family signs,

so  those Aron sailors

washed ashore were known.

Its gentle itch next my skin,

welcome to me unlike others,

an alive and touching friend

recalling worn past ways of:

love lying rumpled by me on the floor,

cold wet tear soaked days,

wind tickled times blowing joy,

the soft light blazing inside me,

its thick white cables tied,

to memories from the deep.