I saw a man this morning on the side of the road. He was besides his car boot open. Rows and rows of carpets, oriental rugs rolled up, side by side, in the car.
He was standing in front of this treasure and I stopped to watch
he weaved in, weaved out heavy wool string with tactful fingers.
One rug on the operating table waiting to be freed from upkeep.
A fringe, a corner in, out, fingers sew in the wool string, white. Until the corner is finished.
And the man looks up. He sees me watching from the side of the road admiring several minutes of artisanry at work on the treasure.
Another few words from the recent weekend in Paris. This time, good words. We have no idea what’s next so stay tuned.