My Mother Knit Time
My mother knit minutes into socks and scarf
no time too short to be employed
She met with midnight clicking needles
decreasing stress and casting it off,
came to terms with dad's impending strikes,
the burnt dinners, the weedy garden,
and I had to wear the results
Her bouts with cancer all recorded in tiny rows
became my white sweater strung with seed pearls
She guessed things out, slipped yarn over fingers,
baby-weight, round after round on circular needles
twisted it into a granddaughter's pale yellow dress,
Three hours of solitary on the couch
created birthday cardigans out of space and time,
Whispering knit one, purl one, wool over needle twice
sharpened her arguments, left her relaxed
and me with an array of slippers and dish cloths
When it was all over, death come and gone
I inherited nine boxes of wool, dozens of needles
and an unfinished afghan
I felt the need to finish it
puzzled over her handwritten directions
wondered if I could penetrate their secrets
and for the first time wanted to learn how
Copyright ©2007 by Jan Wood