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Sweet, juicy, sun warmed;
Fresh from her garden.
Carried with gloved hands
Into the house,
The kitchen,
The bowl.


Touch, texture, possibility;
Searched from among many…
Hands must work it
Into the form
The expression.
The life – of the

Her purpose, and knowing
Who it is she meets
With eyes opened
In anticipation,

Her dishes, her dreams…delicious!

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting


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


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

23Now, I know what year it is.
How it is supposed to be, out there.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t know who it is that I see.
Am I so used to myself?
So used to my ordinary times of day that I look at myself?
Morning ritual, daytime lipstick checks, bathroom hand washing, hair check…
That person, that reflection
Am I seeing the true image?

Am I seeing the girl, the woman, mother,?

When I turn my head to fix my hair
Am I purely being purely utilitarian?

Sexiness and femininity are the gifts that we are,
Us women.