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Button lies heavy.
It’s hard, black surface
Standing still and
Finding small comfort
Among the shiny, wrinkled ribbons
Of deep red.

Button reaches –
Touching the sister ribbon
Of faded yellow-green
Wanting what the ribbons have.

Ribbons so entangled.
Enmeshed in the softness
That cloud-like yarn offers
In gratitude.

They hardly notice
Button’s earnest effort;
Feeling only the weight.
Glass button, a sharp contrast.

Button, oh ill shaped button
Not a square, nor a circle
Who made you?

How is it you have landed here?

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting
Poet and writer who uses all things textile – as a distraction.

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Scraps…

The familiar.
What makes for the look sideways,
Over there?
Just to make sure the stuff is in its place.

Is it the dream?
That maybe.
Another look, only one this week.
Might it appear different?
Transformed!

Truly, it was the imagination,
All of those cruel words.
Words, words, and words…
Hurled words, like boulders.

Am I alive
Or merely a shell
The remnant of a person?
Having withstood, facing head-on,
With few words of my own
In combat.

Fail quickly, someone told me,
Too late!

See there, the empty, bent trash can.
Fill and tie a tight, square knot, with lid crammed shut.
The heavy thing carried away, by someone else.
A kind, hardworking soul.
Or, the virtual trash can, that makes a real sound.

Who cares how?
Only in the gratitude
That the space is now cleared.
New meaning allowed for, in this pretend life,
My one chance, I presume.

Limp to the safety.
Of the empty space.

And, rest for a while.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting
Poet and writer who uses all things textile – as a distraction.

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Become a minister of the Eucharist
And, see the world.

Ours is a world of hands
Human hands – opened
And, of human hands – receiving.

Two hands held near heart, uplifted!
With faces and eyes gazing in reverence.
Of vulnerability, at the Gift.
In sharing, of commonality.

How can I not know
That I am safe in this world.
When I see these hands?

I am knocked down onto my knees
By this holy experience, of shared belief
That there is more to this world
Than any of us can see while in our human bodies.

In wavelike lines, waiting our turn, and we trust.
Every week we receive, as if medicine.
Our sharing in this ritual of Eucharist.

Though, here in Church, we are disconnected
From the streets and the lights of the city
In which our lives really occur.
Daily living, filled with chores that have become duties.

Where the world is – of voices.
Talk, and waiting for another turn,
To talk again.

Now I know and understand
That our God is a God of Silence
And, my heart sings with relief!

I can go anywhere.
I can be anyone.
I already am!

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting
Poet and writer who uses all things textile – as a distraction.

How big does one play this game?
How badly does one have to want it?

When does the old get thrown out with nothing to replace?
When is emptiness the better choice?

When does the space become more important
Than all of the accumulated stuff?

 

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Old, beautiful things,
Collected over time,
We call them the
Tools-of-the-trade.
Not found easily
In the marketplace.
Searched, scrubbed,
Rubbed dry,
And oiled.
Purchased with pennies
Spilled from tattered
Pockets.

 

Materials and the embellishments, aptly called findings,
Collected over time, for use in an unknown future
When working with a particular piece, incomplete,
A need is seen by the eyes and soul
Of the one pair of hands.

The maker’s dreams, give forth a knowing, that in time
Things find very specific places, fulfilling the certain need.
A touch of magic then passes through the maker,
Creating a whole and complete picture.
Signature placed with smile.

Yet, life seems shouting for exploration, for more than this!
New territories appear to call out with undecipherable words,
Words nonetheless, speaking to the heart, yearning.
The eyes and soul not yet finished; one pair of hands
Begging to hold things never imagined.

When do I get to pick up my mat and walk?
How long must I wait here?

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

One is holding,
Sitting with unbearable longing,
Impatient, waiting, trembling.

The other is bursting
Playing, full out
Alive.

One has begun
The unfolding process
Aware.

I so dislike the word
Process.

I want it all now.

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Flower
Peeking from its very own petals
Girl rising from her previous
Self consciousness.

Fear shrugged off
Light warms.
Joyful.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

Feathers fall from trees.
A tiny step upon a branch,
A slight shift,
Of movement.
The feathers float downward,
Gravity pulling for them.

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Lighter than the wind
Dense against the stillness
Reaching ground.

Finding self.
Discarding self.
Tangled in a web of new color.

Wondering, wandering
And becoming still,
Only for the moment.

A cascade of engagement
Follows.

A mass of uncertainty
Presents itself.

Feathers hold on
Everything seems to suggest
The perfection of the entanglement.

No use asking why.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

Lost,
Wondering,
Alone.

Thinking too much,
And, not nearly enough
How is this, my life?

Questions arise.
What matters?
This day.

Things
That I can’t figure out
Their answers – not in my knowing.

I am tied
To a body,
To this place,
To these people.

I want to escape,
To the mountain where
I can fly.

Real connection
Needs none such
Restriction.

The knot may become untied.

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Yet, never unraveled,
Nor falling apart, nor separated,
Nor disconnected.

Merely, becoming unbound.

Creative,
Playing with what’s possible.
One laid open.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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I want to say
I love you.
And, I’m happy.

I am surrounded by things,
A world created
Long time in the making.

A home.

Dishes and things,
Books, papers, supplies
20 years worth or so.

Of doing.

Now, it is finally
The new year
Of the Horse.

The Chinese lunar year.

The only new year
That really counts
Because it seems so real.

Concrete.

I sense the change.
This is the time
To begin again.

May peace be with you.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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