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Here is a little ship
I built it out of love.
Thinking that I was doing
The right thing.

A place of work,
If one could call it that.
A project begins and becomes
With the effort.

The act of making
An art of moving thread, yarn, a piece of cloth
Into its seemingly rightful place.

Transforming one material, and another
In hopes of making something new.
A bright and shining star of a thing!

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Here now is the imagined world
Beyond my wildest dreams
Of how it would turn out.

Filled with the makings of,
And with the first samples
And the last samples.

Tools, trims, findings, fabrics, papers, patterns, books, bundles, ribbons, yarns.
Machines for sewing, machines for knitting, and machines for living.
Art on the walls, and flowers in the small garden – always giving.

 

I wake from my dream,
Asking the question:
Where can I land my ship?

I want the world to see,
For others to come inside,
To learn to use the tools and share the things made.

I want to swim away…
Leaving my little ship
In the good hands of others.
To dream a new dream…

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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A person is a person
For however long
The ride lasts.

A ticket in
Thanks to the mechanics
Of lovemaking.

An instance when
The whisper from the unknown
Shifts the act.

A nudge, a push, a shove
Into the being of:
One of us.

Life to celebrate begins and ends
For however long
The ride lasts.

Tickets, they come in
All colors, sizes, shapes
And, mostly accepted.

Too busy, too focused
Each to his own activities
No notice of yours.

Doing what we do
Not telling all of it
Keeping some distance, of course.

But, wait: “Hey, hey you!
I need your help.
Can you buy this sweater?”

The kids need food.
The kids need new shoes.
And, the car needs some gas!

For the ride, you know…

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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A woman stands alone,
Her back to the crowd.
Her is head slightly bent.

She is an old friend.
She is soft to the touch.
And, wearing a favorite, furry top.

Her colors seem as if, impossible.
Bluish, brownish, purplish stains.
Yet, she almost blends in, to the background.

She is marked with use.
And, has a few scares.
A white gash near her neck stands out.

Who are the people behind her?
Perhaps children, her own children,
A late husband, a young, wishful companion.

Who is it that she faces?
Who seems so distant,
Who wishes to be unseen.

She seems serious, yet not.
She holds herself well, shoulders straight,
Hips in line, with sway that the camera cannot see.

Maybe we’ve got it all wrong?
Do we step back, or up?
To change our point of view?

We can only imagine her life, going forward.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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