Scrap Yarn Bag
My bag of scrap yarn
crammed, seams unraveling
this year
leftover threads, short, long,
earth browns to rainbow variegations
a decade of project remains,
favorite colors, bright designs
of thoughts and fancies
Decades knitting, child learned—
thank you, Grandma!—
knit, purl, cable twist,
knit 2 together, yarn over,
pick up lost stitches to weave in
a sweater, a hat always waiting
for my do-it, do-it self
Tie one end to another, joining
old and new
untangle skeins gone awry
vigilance for snags and knots
Pattern joys in what-next dreams
yarn store colors, textures
nubby and fine
lacy christening robe
bathtub rug
dog bed square
John Muir said that if you
pull on a string, everything in the
universe is hitched to it.
Spider and his web, claimed Chief Seattle,
if you pull on the thread
everything is stuck to it.
My scrap bag—half a ball of wool,
baby yarn a soft marble,
tough acrylics, sliding cashmere—
if I pull on a loose end
what lies at the bag bottom?
Amethyst Review 
I see you at your yarn and I see your yarn at you, Victoria. Yarn and Knitter are one as is spider and web, and poet and poem. Which came first, the knitter or the poet? Neither. In your hands the pair of needles that knit the baby boots is the poet’s fingers that hold the pen that writes the poem. Thank you for this fine metaphysical poem.
LikeLike