Author's Note: My poetry of late has focused on the August due date of a first grandson, first grandchild - a blessing on my move to Vermont as this grandchild will only be 12 minutes away by country road. Yes, I'm knitting and am on the second blanket. Website: triciaknoll.com
For my grandson due in late August
We are second harvests, little one,
green patches covering stubble-fields
where wild turkeys lurk. August gleaning
before we face our winters. Our nights fly over
like bats and eagles and kites – swooping
over geographies of overgrown pasture
abutting forest and ruined landscapes
my peers held dear.
Our faded, jaded noons will span three
centuries. Furrowed rows unknown.
You swim now muffled in womb’s water.
How wide-eyed you’ll come to first light,
dawn as a plump breast, blankets,
barking dogs, and turning trees.
We do what we must: grow and age.
For you a first tooth, another, a long bone.
For me winter fodder remembers.
May we be useful, tender, help feed
the world’s hunger despite our acres
of discontent. To ripen into the best
we’re called to be in our separate seasons.
“Knitting is Coding.” –
-Elisabetta Matsumoto, mathematician and physicist at the Georgia Institute of Technology
You don’t have to know string theory
to unite the energy of yarn and knitters.
We give birth to elasticity and stretch
–using loops, coils and intertwines–
that start with the tension of straight lines.
My mother, who knit three-piece suits,
taught me to cast on, knit, purl, and bind off.
She picked up stitches I dropped,
unsnarled tangles and knots.
She fixed my flaws.
Knitters embed silent wishes
in every stitch, bonds we focus on
for the man who wants gray wool socks
for ice fishing and hockey, the grandmother
who drapes her shoulders in a purple shawl,
homeless teens who need a winter hat,
the baby who kicks blue booties at the sky.
We infuse plain yarn with intent –
to ward off peril. To comfort. For warmth.
The knitter has your back. And hands
and skull and neck and arms or toes.
Now: this baby blanket, 30” by 30”, folded
in my Kenyan sisal basket. It awaits
my grandson. For his August birth.
To swaddle him during cooling dusks
of fussiness while we study his eyes
and tiny hands to wonder what snippets
of whose genes slipped where, in which
sequence, how they knitted up this way
to make him whole and completely new.
© 2019 Tricia Knoll
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF