MY grandmother's needles force the soft grey yarn into patterns old as Europe, She came from a family of farmers and tailors, and gave each grandchild an afghan of her own design; the colors glow like January fire, the stitches are perfect cabled with love. My mother was also a knitter she made patterns and pictures; mittens with snowflakes and Fair Isle socks, She would weave in June days of yellow light, while the babies quietly piled blocks. I to knit too, but my hands can't master the needles, so I pretend and spend hours in a tangle of wool and steel, I am already a master of emperor's cloth. See the fine patterns? the royal colors? the designs more beautiful than stars? And here I sit, like a bear in February, huddled in yards of wool; skeined up in love, clicking my pen across the page. I take words and knit them back in poems, Something could be made of this.
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