It wasn't about taking her to
my favorite yarn shop
to meet the fascinating
Finnish proprietress.
It wasn't about having
a Thai lunch afterward
across the cobbled street.
It wasn't ever about knitting.
It wasn't about me
talking her ear off while
I held her captive.
It wasn't about taking
pictures of us together, then
tagging her on Facebook
so the world would know
I had the honor of spending
the entire afternoon with her.
I didn't have plans to tire her
with my latest poetry
or ask for advice about
writing a book.
Even though the colors and
textures of shelves
bursting with yarn send me
into kinesthetic ecstasy
and sensorial bliss
I must confess - I don't
know how to knit.
I wanted to be with her
to taste old soul wisdom,
eat satisfying words,
touch a silky hand,
and follow her gaze.
I wanted to be with her
because I can't find any kindred,
unencumbered, uncluttered,
spiritual direction and validation
to help me explore these new,
unfamiliar menstrual pauses.
I wanted to be with her
because I'm hungry for keen
observations, reminiscent
memories of childhood, and lively,
sprightly humor teetering on
the ledge between proper and 'im'.
I wanted to be with her
because I don't know where to find
older women who tell catastrophic
stories that leave me wondering how
they survived the pain, or how God
transformed it into eucatastophe?
Where are the women who,
while telling about
the worst part
of a life altering disaster
don't mind pausing while I ask,
but then what happened?
Who’ll shrug and smile, well,
I'm not sure exactly what
happened after that, but here
I am.
I want reminded
how the story ends,
— because the middle part
gets knotted and tangled.
And I don’t know how to knit.
My timing was off.
Just prior to my invitation she had
purchased her winter’s stash of yarn.
She knows how to knit.
