Six Fingers

She came from that special tribe of women
whose hands have six fingers each.
Fingers that appear a blur of agitation
chattering amongst themselves 
in a language I could never understand.

9th Row: * Yo, K1, yo, sl 1, K1, psso, K13, K2tog, yo, K1, yo, 
K2 tog, K2 (yo) twice, K2, K2tog; repeat from * all round.

As a child I watched 
as her architecture exploded
in rhythm and rhyme, 
my eyes dazzled with reflections
of their ceaseless motion.  
I thought of spiders spinning webs,
of clouds delivering snowflakes made 
of white unfolding tapestries. 
It was living art, 
breathing from an inward rhythm, 
gaining life before my eyes. 
Her fingers, ten of flesh 
and two of bone, 
like fencing masters 
parry- thrusting patterns in the air. 
long bones bobbing, weaving, 
nearly, neatly, kissing, then retreating,
fast as fighter jets leaving contrails 
of air and finery behind, 
kissing the air, 
to leave each slender thread embraced, 
membranes laced 
with love and intuition. 
Doilies brought to fruition 
with loving hands; 
her many fingers moving, 
proving themselves 
over and over 
in secret patterns surging, 
revealing their purpose 
merging crocheted gifts 
of adept urging. 
Breathing life 
to limp and simple strings 
with all the love 
that her attention brings. 
Gifts brought to a world 
made better 
by hands and willing heart. 
Hands that held six fingers each 
and turned her sacred language into art.

Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021

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