Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Poems from the (Knitting) Needles

Your eyes stay resolutely on that spot,
as your needles meet and exchange secrets.
Their language of clinking and clanging
is foreign to my naive ears.
I'm sure they are weaving truths
between the yarn in your fingers
and the air in mine

But I don't hear, or if I do,
I cannot comprehend.
The truth, in its form
of clinking and chinking
will never be mine.
Those needles don't teach their language
You know it or you don't.
I don't.

But maybe if I wait,
I will be the one to see
that truth is not a language,
but an afghan, knitted stitch by stitch.
Sometimes, there are errors,
dropped stitches, inconsistency
when needles
change hands.
Truth is slow work that is never finished.

The afghan long and full of mistakes,
It wraps around me,
A comforting blanket of unfinished reality.

2 comments:

Vyxen said...

This is a really lovely poem.

Rachel said...

You probably won't see this comment because you posted this blog so long ago, but I find that the words are stirring up correspondence in me.

This poem is lyrical and magical and it solidifies my desire to catapult from my mind to yours and take up residence therein. Thank you.