Star Wheel

First published by Origami Poems Project in 2020 as a microchapbook titled Star Wheel (view or download the free PDF). Each poem in this collection was inspired by the name of a crochet pattern at the home of Alice Frampton’s mother, Patricia Emel, in Seabeck, Washington. Originally written 10–23 November 2002. See also “Crocheting.” 

flower show—

a crocheted doily

under each pot



late-morning quiet—

a dusting of pollen

on the wedding table



bridal reception—

the queen anne’s lace

still unarranged



flowered latticework—

the plein air painting

lacks the arachnids



long-weekend getaway—

the star-wheel embroidery

still unfinished



clearing skies—

I look up “marquesa”

in my computer dictionary



the harpist’s sigh . . .

bridesmaid’s bouquet

askew on the head table



hands up!

the bride’s bouquet

in mid air



pulling daisy petals . . .

the country church bell

down for repairs



Texas diner—

the tip jar

filled with pesos



pomp and circumstance

the giggling kindergartner

trips on her robe



heavy garbage can—

sweet clover

from here to the lane



prairie flower—

your sketch

of just its fallen petal



aching thumb—


yellows the swatter



arching Frisbee—

a leafy bower

hides the garden doorway



the “Old Louisiana” crochet pattern

she tells me is hers . . .

intermittent rain



my cavalier remark

asking what she’s done all day—

steaming lasagna



waving here and there

over our Birkenstocks,




newly painted trellis—

the agent arrives

to lift out the Sold sign



comatose teenager . . .

“Happy New Year”

whispered in her ear



gentle lawn sprinkler—

the fancy-free first grader

twirls in the garden



Arabian night—

sand ticking

the Moorish window




to write about—

governor’s lady



farmhouse wedding—

nosegays reflecting

in the mantel mirror



honeymoon suite—

crinoline and velvet

fall to the floor



snowflake fantasy—

the unfinished puzzle pieces

swept off the table edge



May flowers—

a change-of-address sticker

on redirected mail



April morning—

the last page

shuts by itself