Who collects lanolin
from sheep sheared
   for market,
 
   washing viscous wax
from fouled wool,
   sitting on wooden stools
 
   and wondering why
water flows to positive
   and negative ends
 
   while oil balances
between cloven hooves?
   Wondering is an ache
 
   settled deep in their hips.
They search for the words
   in lathered soap―
 
   words to enchant
the wet wool lying limp
   against the side of the metal tub.
 
   How does one emulsify
past and future?
   Grief exists only now

   as a fleece, a blindfold
for seeing what others cannot
   with their unsoiled truth.
 
   Questions remain enough:
answers are never whole.
   Knowing is a thimble
 
   to yearning faith
needling
   the soul.

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