PATTERNS
Stitches I drop aren’t my own.
They belong to the wheelchair
white haired lady who sits
by the fire in Kentucky and knits,
the eighth-grade Idaho girl
with serious lips who learns
to cast on, the young surgeon
who sews them up, rips them out.
These stitches we drop—where
do they fall? Embedded
in Fiesta cranberry cardigans,
merino that glows with a halo,
fuzzy jewel tone mohair shawls,
portrait of kings and acorns
stitched with intense aqua and
turquoise held together
to create a novel look
never to be duplicated.
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Be always safe,
Karen