Fingers like bobbins
slide yarn from point to point –
slip, wrap, finger, draw through, repeat.
Quicker than the eye
her needles clack and scissor,
weaving and weaving –
knit, purl, knit, purl, drop a stitch and carry to the back.
My hands on her hands, skin like iced tissue paper,
yarn moves the blood.
She moves my fingers,
needling them –
nudge the tip, hold it steady, wrap the yarn, pull through the loop.
We’ve moved the world.
Picking up speed, now a purse, some socks, mittens, silky scarves, a tam;
and now booties and a blanket for my boy, a jumper for my boy, a sweater for my boy.
Oh! The patterned textures that pass over two slender bodies –
stitches lost, yanked clean out at times,
then retrieved to rest with the others.
All the while, even after thin fingers grow still,
after joints grow too stiff for needles,
her hands are my hands and in my hands, her hands, always.
A.E. Bayne is a teacher, writer, and artist who has lived in Fredericksburg for fifteen years. She enjoys sharing her love of language with her friends, family, and middle school students, and has been monthly contributor to The Front Porch magazine since 2011.