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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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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

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The blues stood next to the whites.
The reds near the browns and golds.
Grey wanted to hog the middle.
Navy gave us some relief.
Lilac wound a path.
Purple made an appearance.
As did black.
Lime green skirted the edge.
Pink pretended not to care.
A small mass of smoky grey laughed!

They let themselves fall
Onto the cream paper.

They let the paper feel their weight.
Paper smiled.

A marching burgundy swirled in
For the capture!

They rested in relief.

The trashcan stood near
Empty, without hope of being included.

It could have been worse
They told themselves.

“We have been saved,” the colors said.
“We have new purpose, we stand together.”

“The woman called us art,” they said.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting