Ode to a Watchcap

Slinky black wool block heater,
ribbed and seam-sewn throughout,
you keep my skull warm and
for that I am ever in your debt.
Your gracious tides see-saw across my brow,
your phrenology coarse, comfortable, efficient.
Your label states Made In Canada and
I wonder, where, ever where was thou loosed?

Were you crafted by a man named James in
a wind-battered Newfoundland shack,
his hands old floorboards,
his beard a bleached sail,
his dog drowned years ago?

Were you loomed with great care by the hands of a lovely young woman named Sarah,
she who misses her father and sings sweet
dirges to her swaddling infant?

Are you one of several?
A clutch, a plethora, an insignia of caps?
I know that I spot your brothers and sisters
atop winking heads under dusty snows,
ragged pilgrims taking the season to task,
getting down to it,
laughing at the ice peels and chipping
away the squint of March frost.

You ratchet your warmth and you make no mistakes.
You curl around head bumps
and dance around ears.
You call fools to the wind
and burn your wool hot.

How can one repay your double-layer ripstitch gift?

May I transport you to the wind-shocked Acadian coast,
where as a longshoreman's lid your first best destiny
may be realized?

May I set you on a shelf filled with books
so that you may take those distant stories
and add your own, create something new,
and store those secrets in the ridges of your body?

May you be open to all seasons,
all affinities,
all praise,
all graces,
all sorrows.
May you no longer endure summer's lonely wheeze.