Row upon row the words
flow like knitting wool,
plain and purl, making
phrases curl at the line end
and rhyme where you please.
If you’re not paying heed
words can bleed, knot
or even drop before you
reach a stop and decide whether
to pick one up or knit another.
So it shapes itself, knowing,
forming, lengthening, growing
purl and plain, read it again.
Cast on stitches, join a seam.
And finally a garment of sorts,
possibly pleasing, the result of
teasing, easing, clicking of pens,
needling of thoughts, until you feel
you can cast off
a poem.