I only write poetry when I'm trying to figure things out. Last one I wrote was when an old friend and I reconciled, four years ago.
The first line came to me earlier this week, when I was picking up dropped stitches in my sock after talking to Brother Abacus for two hours on the phone.
Like knots slipping in silk,
this merciful unskeining of the heart:
Hands serving as swift
to hold it steady as it spins;
winding, curving into usefulness,
motes flying giddily aloft
as stitches of remembrance form,
one over one cables take shape,
and the dust of forgetting dances away.
© [me] 18 November 2006
- Five years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!