Luci's Shawl

Prayers of thanks as I wrap

the wholly crocheted words

around me. 

It’s cool in this writer’s

cave under the stairs.

Your tight and lose knots

rest easy on my cold shoulders.

It was back on May twentieth,

early in the morning that I

was invited into moving

words with needle swords.

You wield the points together,

changing the colors as needed

until floats cascade down

in mischief on the underside.

Then flashing would rise like an

Easter morning as you knot and

untie the fibers of vocabulary.

Any time I can pull out a poem

of yours like a loose thread and

it unravels me. 

In Honor of one of my favorites

Luci Shaw