Knitting
Poem - by Anne E. G. Nydam
The witch at the end of our street
Knits on her rickety porch,
Rocker creaking, magic wands clicking,
Sparks freckling the spellbound dusk
Like fireflies.
On her paired wands, sparking beneath her gnarled fingers,
Enchanted fibers purl and mesh themselves into
Odd, uncanny things that cannot be bought.
The children try to catch the sparks, chasing magic
Until bedtime.
She twirls up the flossy tails
That comets brush across the winter stars,
And knits long scarves of silvery gauze that turn heads,
Drawing eyes toward their ephemeral orbit.
She winds up the soft rays
Of sun from summer afternoons,
And knits thick mittens of golden yarn that warm fingers,
Opening hands to spread their warmth.
She twines the sparkling cords
Of morning birdsong’s harmonies,
And knits bright socks of cheerful threads that lighten hearts,
Lifting feet to dance along the sidewalk.
She gathers up strong skeins of mothers’ hugs for cardigans,
Rolls glittering spools of bright ideas for stocking caps,
Spins bubbling laughter into shimmering silk for shawls,
And, because she remembers the 80s, keeps
A few balls of ordinary pink acrylic for leg warmers.
Everyone on our street has warm and open hands,
And light and dancing feet. Some of us turn heads.
Everyone on our street contributes hugs and laughter
To the witch’s stash of many-textured yarns,
And gets it back again.