By Anita Tanner
Like Morse Code,
the language as rhythmic as water,
the hook angles,
drawn on the thin yarn line
to gather and build,
a pooling of pastel color,
an acrylic lap, stria of stitches
where a part becomes the whole.
No matter the signs—
filet, shell, cable—
fingers fast in form
follow the patterned line
like guided gypsies
watching for crossed twigs
or sticks strewn over land
to say: this way,
here’s where we came
to bed down,
here was water and time,
small signs, patteran,
like songs we memorize
to guide us on,
to say Rep from * across,
end off.
