by Eileen Thalenberg
The crisscrossed knitting needles
sit idly in the skein of wool
like folded hands
when work is done.
She’s been gone
more than twenty years
and the half-finished scarf
meant for me
waits to be completed.
She never taught me how to knit.
Those were her private moments.
I look at the perfect, even rows
what secret desires were remembered
and how many demons
were cast off stitch by stitch.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2