My Heart Unto Yours is Knit

If you ask me
how my knitting classes are going
I’d say that I like the orderly progression of the stitches,
each row of loops on the needle,
posed like a chorus line facing left.
I love to slide my fingers over the alpaca,
to feel the rhythm that builds with needles and yarn.
I am mesmerized by the subtle dance of knit and purl,
the growing weight of the piece as it shifts on my lap.
I clutch the bamboo needles
like a Newfoundland trucker who knits while he drives.
My hands explore new territory and acquire their own memory.
I work the fibers of Incan royalty
and the stitches leapfrog into stockinettes and ribs;
slip, slip, knit, slip, slip, knit
the thin wood pursuing strands of pistachio, poppy and purple.
I start the hank with a long-tail cast on,
then selvage the place where seams disappear.
I want to knit one, purl one, laugh one.
I want to make gloves that start with my fingers
when I lift the strand between the needles
and embrace yours when you split wood beside the barn.



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