the intimate knitter

in the end, it all comes down to the flame.
trembling and haunted by the shadow
of aspen and dogwood; the mourning doves
call, sitting on the telephone wires against
the pale sky of California memory.

The needles tick together; the pattern
falling from my hands, moving so slowly
towards the last stitch and the scissors.

The spinning wheel and the lathe
and the clothing whole and shining
and in the end, the flame claims almost everything

and the wind claims what's left.