And stretch them from the eves.
We'd hold opposite ends
And run in the breeze.
As we got older we'd wrap them
Around a million times,
Calling it a trend and wearing colors
Ranging from reds to limes.
In the West it's called fashion,
The East as a nessecity.
But in our hearts they will always be gifts,
Knit by grandmothers for free.
To the old soul
Or child of age,
The cloth is a weapon
Made to engage;
To battle with memories
That aren't very nice,
To defend against bullies
And smell of sugar and spice.
To be dragged through ragged streets,
And twisted by nervous fingers.
To have a million with designer labels,
Or one where the scent of time still lingers.
Whether the cloth be old or new,
Or made of yarn and wool,
Fabricated with a design,
Or embroidered with a metal tool.
The way we treat them is expressive,
And tells strangers of our characteristics.
Whether we hold them with a sense of pride
Or drop them with sorrowful mystics.
Though we might not wear them often
Or promote them as our fashion,
They have a piece of our childhood;
Whether we grew up on the streets or in a mansion.
Scarves; whether they be short or long,
Whether they be new or worn.
Whether they be pricey or cheap,
Whether they be whole or torn.
Each one has a story,
That could tell you about Fall;
That could tell you about Europe;
That could tell you anything at all.
They are our first years when they are a given,
Our middle ones when we buy many.
Our later times when we consume for others,
And ends when we make them as nannies.
They are a part of all of our adventures,
And a strong memory it carves
All the days we've spent,
Just us and our scarves.
