In the corner of my kitchen, a rumble
of the floor beneath me. Shudders,
a slight tremor come from the furnace
below, reminding me it's cold outside,
but giving me comfort. I am warm. thick socks
I knit myself wrap my ankles, a shawl
Nana crocheted over fifty years ago
warms my shoulders. It is a parable
that runs in my head like a serial: woolen
goods, hand-made and passed
from grandmother to mother to daughter.
On and on, the yarn twines and binds us.
We wind the wool, slip it through our fingers,
needles flying until soft things bend to our work,
emerge with our stories woven in, our lives stitched.
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