If I’d wanted pooling, I’d have gone to school in Florida!

 

Oh, pooling, how I loathe thee.
Sometimes my loathe is my own doing-
Thus, a part of me will always love the subtle socketh of spirals.

Sometimes, pooling, oh ye cunning fool thee be.
Thy pool in subtlety – in thus such an accpetable manner that thine doesth thou continue in thine ugliness with high hope that thy situation will rectify. Alas, it does not.

But, oh, pooling, how I loathe thee.
when thy pooling is stiped of brights and dark….
Oh, mine eyes! Oh, why dosth thy continue?
Why must I continue knitting, watching thy situation worsen
for it worsens so with each round and round I go…

I long to frog thee, oh pooling sock of bright greens and blues.
I long to see thee as an impressionist work of art as this blue piece demonstrates so well,
Bits of color sprinkled here and there, all over thine footeth.

But alas, thy crazy flashing and pooling continues
Despite shaping of calf and a change of stitch count.
Thy ugliness mocketh me. Thy pooling only grows thin.
Thy do not stopeth.

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Time is Knitting. A poem.

This is my first Poetry Thursday post (on Wednesday, what can you do?). I hope you like it!

Time.

Time passes. It’s ever constant.
Birthdays pass, couples wed, buildings fall and careers end.
“My life is slipping through my fingers,” they say.

My wool passes through my fingers.
I knit for birthdays, housewarmings and those who are ill.
My fingers remind me of the value of my time as I spend it knitting for others and knitting for myself.

The most constant reminder of time is when it’s stolen.
When someone dies.
In the case of my grandmother’s recent death, knitting has been my solace.
I knit to remember.
I knit to mourn.
I knit to commemorate.
I knit in a connection to time.

To it’s presence on me.
To reclaim the ownership of “me” time.
To pass it.
To relish in it.
To know it.

Time is knitting for me. Both slip through my fingers. And both are the fabric of my life.

Note: My grandmother died on Mother’s Day of 2006. I knit these socks (yarn dyed by me) to commemorate her and the hours I spent at her cottage during the summers of my youth running, swimming, boating and being loved. What a great woman she was.