Left with nothing to say,
I knit this winter sweater.
The thread of you already done
maxed out with blunt end at the
three month premium.
Yet looped into the previous,
already the next one begun;
The stitch of a day
A meeting, perhaps kiss,
Neither bind nor cast -
the constant clicking dance of the wrist.
The bits we shared the dares the songs
All now woolen loops
Row upon row.
Put the emotions in a poem
Said an earlier one, the words stitched
In stripes of turquoise and indigo.
the three month stretch -
then a three month stretch -
see you again when the next three is done.
when you find she too isn't the one
But if in a still moment with needles down
I speak a truth, it's this:
what I loved was the me in you -
the joy and beauty I was, I still am
knitted into cloth of glacier blue,
knotted with some hope in your carmine hue
though all along I knew you weren't the one.
I'll keep up with the thread, keep knitting my yarn
til one day they bury me in my sweater, still not done.
still warm with the love I have for each one
each stripe
each color
each dear storied man
who loved me for a season,
a three month yarn.
the three month stretch
then a three month stretch
see you again when the next three is done.
when you decide she too was just for fun
and I in soft progress have looped a new one.
