Beg, Ch, Dc, Yo, Tr, Sc

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.