Heather Saunders Estes

I have been refining and rewriting this poem for a couple of years. I pleased to share this version but it might still change. My daughter is a very active knitter right now and I am repeatedly inspired by the delightful textures, rich colors, and sheep smells of the different wools. Knitting seems to me to be a perfect pandemic poem to patience. I fondly remember my grandmother teaching me to knit when I was a young girl.

Pacific Coast

She is knitting up fog
with needles of redwood trees.

Fluttering skeins flow
from her fingers.

Dense softness nestles
in hills and valleys.

In twilight and growing darkness
she smooths the blanket.

The winds in cypress boughs
murmur and croon.

Through shifting clouds,
the nightlight barely shows.