Mother’s fingers rocked needles;
they swayed a rhythm just their own.
Between the babbling strands of yarn
a clickety-clack, tender melody forlorn.
Yarn back, then forward, and front.
How confusing can knitting be?
Yet, she hummed each stitch with love
this I effortlessly could certainly see.
Binding off, a hopeless endless thing
to make that final, finished row.
Cast on, not as outdoorsy fishermen,
in their tranquil, pastoral river throw.
I with awkward, clumsy hands would
drop a stitch. Which could not go unseen?
My eyes powerless to see like hers:
SL1, SL1K, SL1P. What does it mean?
With her passing, the needles went to me
a novice or newcomer; not yet fledged.
Housed in cylinder case, gone to bed
till I heard their cry from closet’s ledge.
The aged needles won’t dance a waltz,
as mother could create them do.
Yet, in her memory of aged fiber art
I’ll construct a simple thing or two.
I’d rather inscribe a yarn or two,
put the needles to rest, bring out
the inky pen and let the paper sing.
Compose a rambling story stout.
I think that’s what I’ll do.
In the spirit of Irish poet, Seamus Heaney, we are writing about artisans over at dVerse. Having a little Irish in me and a love of fiber arts I write.