That first mitten was pale yellow
and big enough for a yeti.
Its matching sister mitten
was a snug fit for my Tiny Tears doll.
I was 9 and the thread
of that fuzzy yellow yarn
has now twisted and woven
its way through
a lifelong love of all things fiber.
Now I am knitting my way
through the sixties
and the pleasure and peace
of picking up those tiny needles
and warming my arthritic fingers
with that soft and silky handspun wool
is all about keeping those hands warm and busy
while my mind wanders and wonders.
The long arc
of that knitted path
reveals an automatic
and deeply authentic
connection back to that child
who could never
ever
have imagined
what adventures
her clumsy young hands
would have before her.