Knitted together by colours,
Thread by all experiences.
And through God's Love needle;

I'm stitched with his image.
Living in a material world;

But in an the after-life,
No longer in its texture.

what is it
just another sound
i begin to knit
for another round

come to think about it
it never quit
i’m feeling it
from the bottom of a pit

one sight in years
unbearable tears
liberty sounds lovely
but it is heavenly

they say this is worth
anything else is dirt
i take it for granted
letting myself pricked

does it get better
it does taste bitter
does it ever end
i can only pretend

cause this is the sewer
where people suffer
idling the reality
and nurtures it within

frankly
i’m aching for light
but alas
the thread lasts

and there’s nothing i can do about it

the process of crocheting an
afghan is about just that
the process

you make an afghan looking
forward to the nights you will
curl up under it and relishing
the way it fits over your
legs when it's halfway finished

or thinking and hoping
how much someone you love
will love and appreciate
your gift of time and callouses

weaving a container for whatever
emotions you need contained

i realized this that first winter
deep in february when i began
my long nights of scrap yarn
desperately trying to piece
something together out of
the not knowing why
i told myself that this was it
the sum total of my works
the item they would fold up and
place on the table next to the jar
of my ashes come september
and it was done by march

a slow and roundabout way
of pushing myself through
the suicidal smog
smeared through my mind

my friends had blankets wrapped
around them that bright morning
of the anniversary we all cried together
my tears falling on my afghan

i made them each an afghan
plus a few more
always pushing myself
to look forward

lost count of how
much yarn i used
how many stitches
passed through my hands

but by the time the next
march came around i
had made or charted
out five more

to fill the void
clawing at my insides

spent a year making
myself another
in tight ripples of
time and television

and now
my fingers
slow
and stop

seven afghans
in two years
is an accomplishment
that might send the
head of even the
highest caliber of
grandma spinning

i have no more afghans
left in me to make

so instead i crawl
down into bed
two i made
two from friends
and one from
my mother

and lie
head pounding
eyes puffy
void of energy
in the space
between my afghans

"When you learn
to knit," he said.
"It's not a mistake
you make; it's
the thing that
makes your work
unique.

"Each one,"
he said,
"is a signature."

I think of my
life--with all
its lumps,
tangles, rewoven ends,
dropped stitches.

You are all
my signatures.

You created my inmost being; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I was woven together in the depths of the earth; from the first stitch your eyes saw my unformed body.  Before you completed that first row all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

You selected the yarn by colour, by weight, choosing the texture with utmost care. You picked out the ideal needles, counted the ***** of wool and with a smile settled down to cast on that first stitch.

Your fingers blurred into action as you chatted with family, confident of the pattern you yourself designed  -

With a knit and a pearl the stitches increased and decreased to ensure the desired shape, maintaining a consistent gauge stitch after stitch, row after row.

And after hours of knitting and chatting, with a satisfied sigh you cast off and held up the result of your handy work to the light for all to admire.

How precious you are to me. How I wonder at this body knitted together with such love and with such great skill.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully knitted.

I want you to love me in a sweater,
grey,
cable knit,  
a little too big.  
I'll wrap my arms around you,  
like fluffy wings,  
keep you safe for a change.  
(There is something about you that makes me want to.)

We will tangle up in warmth,  
and I'll curl my fingers in your hair and press kisses in each curl.
The contentedness between us will be tangible,
filling the air around us.

I want you to love me in the soft way that I love you,
Warm linen sheet-like,  
A nestling-into-you kind of thing.
We fit together,
you and I.  
Just right.

I want to feel your sleepy breath on my neck,
your lovely eyes fixed on mine.  
Your fingers can trail along my shoulders,
your chest can heave contented sighs.  
The crook of your arm could be my pillow,
the space between us nonexistent.

I remember when we knitted
Our fingers together
And our lives interwove.
They eventually became whole,

And they eventually broke.


-- Eleanor