(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,
poised 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 alpaca 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 begin in my hands
when I lift the strand between the needles
and end on yours beside the woodpile.