and one yarn.
soft, silent clicks
and a mere thread of wool takes shape into human warmth.
Daunting at the onset,
the yarn is wound tight into a ball,
all its limbs hidden into a singular mass,
the beginning is bare,
the end evades sight,
and so four hands work together to unravel the mystery.
The pattern lies in the tightly wound circle,
waiting to break free into itself,
taking its own shape,
one befitting its destiny.
we are but mere passengers of the flow.
On goes the first knot,
to secure the beginning, and the end;
and then the needles dance.
Isn't true dance, the one without music?
the one of self, with self.
Yet self, is only as good as its truth,
its discovery a skill,
not many possess,
and fewer use.
this dance of the needles,
click click, they go,
eagerly consuming the yarn,
leaving behind patterns past;
building space where none exists,
yet one soon will.
These hands are one with the needles,
the hands don't exist anymore
what exists is the blunt edges of thin knives,
carving cloth into cover,
an object into emotion.
Time and yarn have an inexplicable bond,
yet the seeker knows the secret,
lies not in speed or movement,
but in treating them as kin,
loving each without expectation,
and time loves back with patience,
yarn with warmth,
and there is the wool to pull away from the eyes,
a turtleneck sweater.
White as the source,
Soft as clouds,
unique as the snowflake,
unseen knots holding it together,
just for the one that seeks it.
Soft silent clicks,
almost like the seconds of a clock,
but they tell not time,
And what was once a mere tangle of yarn,
today brings a tear of joy,
to the woman,
who wears it as a talisman of a mother's love.