Here is a poem from Naomi Shihab Nye, whom I had the pleasure of taking a workshop from a few years ago:
Sewing, Knitting, Crocheting... | |
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| A small striped sleeve in her lap, navy and white, needles carefully whipping in yarn from two sides. She reminds me of the wide-angled women filled with calm I pretended I was related to in crowds.
In the next seat a yellow burst of wool grows into a hat with a tassel. She looks young to crochet. I'm glad history isn't totally lost. Her silver hook dips gracefuly.
And when's the last time you saw anyone sew a pocket onto a gray linen shirt in public? Her stitches must be invisible. A bevelled thimble glitters in the light.
On Mother's Day three women who aren't together conduct delicate operations in adjoining seats between La Guardia and Dallas. Miraculously, they never speak. Three different kinds of needles, three snippy scissors, everybody else on the plane snoozing with The Times. When the flight attendant offers free wine to celebrate, you'd think they'd sit back, chat a minute, tell who they're making it for, trade patterns, yes?
But a grave separateness has invaded the world. They sip with eyes shut and never say Amazing or Look at us or May your thread never break.
Naomi Shihab Nye
Holding it together,
--The Knit Chick |
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