Mending Mittens

Mending my leather mittens

for the third time this winter,

I sew them with waxed string

made to repair fishing nets,

hoping they’ll last

until the splitting maul rests

against the shrunken woodpile

and the hoe and spade come out of the shed.

Suddenly I find myself praying.

Blessed be those who have laced together

the splits at the seams of this world,

repaired its threads of twisted waters.

Blessed be those who stitch together

the animals and the land,

repair the rends in the fabric

of wolf and forest,

of whale and ocean,

of condor and sky.

Blessed be those who are forever fixing

the tear between people and the rest of life.

May we all have enough thread,

may our needles be sharp,

may our fingers not throb or go numb.

May each of us find an apprentice,

someone who will take the needle from our hands

continue all the mending that needs to be done.