for LB
In the dream, I hand him a skein
of evergreen yarn. He cups his palms
below it as if receiving communion,
then squeezes the fine wool,
testing its softness, its strength.
Finding it worthy, he nods at me
as I offer you the half-knitted hat,
the yarn still attached to the needles,
the other end of the yarn held in his palms.
He looks at you, so loving, so tender,
looks at the slender green strand between you
and smiles before unwinding the yarn
to give you more length, more length.
This morning, the dream still wrapped around me,
I imagine you not as Penelope, knitting
and unknitting to prolong your time. Instead,
I see you have made of the yarn a swing,
a pendulum tethered to devotion that allows you
to play and soar between realms, and the god
of swings and the god of skeins, and
the god of play and the god of love and the god
of green and the god of dreams are the same
good god, and every one of them is whispering
bless you, bless you, bless you.