Balls of yarn in a basket rest,
tightly wound await their quest.
Cats a-pouncing, a playful pest,
balls unwound are surely messed.
But if to be a ball at rest,
is to be without life’s zest.
To unwind, we humans blessed.
Perhaps the cat does know best.
But we’re not cats, as you’ve guessed.
And if to pounce we’re addressed.
Our winding road we’re obsessed.
And our time is surely pressed.
But like a basket we welcome guest,
receiving all to our cozy nest.
Though when full we get stressed,
perhaps to knit, but surely I jest.
Our paths in life we can request.
Our destinations we manifest.
But our time we must invest.
Or simply the litter we’ll digest.