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A cigarette – it used to be,
In my grandmother’s day.
A drink, a good strong one!
My father had, even at the office!
A glass of Chablis, or Napa burgundy,
Port wine with lunch?

Peace for a few minutes,
Calmness, intelligence.
Shoulders relaxed.
Clear thinking snatched
From the confusion
That is life.

It doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.
The disorder spills out
In a tangled ball.

 

Someone over there sits with two sticks
A ball of color, in between.
Wrapping, looping and pulling through
Each is a stitch.

Over and over, over and over again, and again, and again.
The stitches fall down,
Form becomes apparent.

Nothing to do with mouth or eyes,
No smoke blows out.
No clinging to the glass.
No disappointment, that it didn’t last,
No lingering flavors.

The taste is of another kind.
Warmth, sustenance,
Simple math becomes a thing to hold.

Happiness is being let loose
Into something, for someone.

 

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting
(The photo is of knitting that was begun in Africa by an unknown person. I wonder if she knows how happy it makes me to have this small piece of the work of her hands!)

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