It’s the crones who speak
about the needles in my hands
in my lap
a raglan sweater emerging
smaller just yesterday
today closer to its completion
with a braid on the side
a landmark of something new

you must be coming from a family of knitters
says one
I wish my heart were
filled with the past of her
I don’t say

this speckled sweater as a map of
the first April I wrote poetry every day
and the crone’s silver hair a shimmer in the silk,
and a cool morning fog
linger as remnants in the wool

when only the sleeves are left to knit
I clean the project bag
I take out the yellow rocks from
the place where the sweater started
it took five attempts to get past the first three rows
once past that struggle
another crone says
you are a real knitter now

more and more books find their way into the bag
one for my poems
one for the spirit animals
and one for Georgia’s paintings and letters
maybe words will climb out of the bag
with the yarn to be curled
by two driftwood needles

Isn’t it all just needles dancing?
I think while binding off.
Loose, away
close oh so close
when one stitch drops over the other
then loose again to make another

when finished as the hem
release comes from a pair of scissors
rusty and blunt
loose ends hidden by
a tapestry needle

And I know she sent them
the crones and crows
who see sleeves for arms with
lonely hands that write and type,
rescued like dropped stitches