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
Gerald the Writer 
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