Skeins of seaweed
glisten on sand.
I want to wind them into balls,
hear yarn snapping taut against fingers,
perfect eggs
birthed from loose nests of color
held on my stiff hands, listening
to tales of my grandfather
flying over barrels,
skates carving the Ukrainian ice.
When his joints froze into
swollen arthritic knobs,
he taught his daughter
how to wind yarn,
knitting words and wool.
She made cables and plaits
rise out of flatness
into storied landscapes.
The time we thought
my uncle was dying,
sutures ripped beyond
a surgeon’s skill,
my mother, my aunt
in silent communion
knit him back to life,
needles clicking a language
I never learned,
warm fingers weaving.
