It Is Not A Hat

One, two, three.

Double.

One, two, three.

Double.

I count stitches until the rhythm takes over and intuition reigns,

knowing when to lift two loops over my hook in place of one.

Tiny twists capture wandering thoughts,

pulling them gently back to my hands.

In meditation,

string becomes stitches,

stitches become rows.

A form takes shape,

like clay on a potter’s wheel.

I am a machine

and I am not a machine.

It is a hat

and it is not a hat.