spelling your name in my dance

The day I forget to write
the day I forget to feed the cats
the day I forget to love you
the day I forget your name
and then my own.

Until then I will not cease
this spinning pattern: part weave
of skeins of soft wool to keep
us warm, to clothe our too open
flesh, to decorate us--

and part dance, through woods
where roots trip me, a dance
through meadows of rabbit holes
and old ribs of plowing hidden
under thick grass.

Until then I will whirl
through my ragged days.
Like a spindle, like a dreydl
I will turn in the center
of my intricate weave

spelling your name in my dance
in my weaving, in my work,
your hidden name which
is simply, finally,
love.

[Marge Piercy {1936- }, 'All Lovers Have Secret Names', from What Are Big Girls Made of?: Poems]