Ode to Wool

It was a little chilly last week, and Monday it was downright cold ... cold enough to finally break out a wool jersey. And, pulling the scratchy fabric over my head, getting my nose snagged in the zipper (big nose and small zipper -- I will leave you to figure out the ratio), it occurred to me that Somebody has hit the clicker on the climatory channel changer, pedalling the planet further around the cosmic velodrome, leaning into the curve as it promenades around the sun. Allemande left with your wrong hand, do the hokey pokey and, yet again, slowly ... turn ... your ... self ...

Around.

That's what it's all about?

It was in this poetic mode that I rolled out of the RandoCave into a grey dawn (not to be confused with a gray dawn in the American English spelling, and certainly not with any type of Red Dawn -- ah, Patrick Swayze, we miss ye so!).

Anyhoo. I composed -- on the spot! -- the following missive to my snuggly wool jersey. Well, maybe not on the spot, but you get my meaning.

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Those days start warm before turning hot.
As I pedal on you heat these bones of clay,
And, unlike spandex, you stinketh not.

Sometime too hot the summer day does grow,
And there is naught clothing that I can shed.
But light jacket around you I can doff and stow

Till thine woolen presence proclaims, "I am a Fred."

But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Thy colours, so long as by hand I wash thee.
And mothballs will make thine enemies afraid,
So that you can continue to warm me.

So long as wool does breathe and Fall does chill,
And hopefully your fabric does not pill.