Last night, I sat down on my bed

And thought, as thinking is habit for me,

Of all the books that I had read

And all the stitches that were worked by me.

 

Being a kid, I knew that when I was sitting

And knitting there, just quietly being, 

For too long would soon, for me, lead to wiggling

And that’s when I took up knitting while reading. 

 

I thought, when I grow up and get me a place

I’ll make it, not out of wood but of wool

You could roll it up and stash it in some little space

What a convenient house! What a nice little tool!

 

There’d be knitted chairs that blew up when their seats were stuffed,

And a knitted table, made in a similar way,

And a knitted bed full of fluff that could be pulled out

When you wanted to put the house away. 

 

And out the knitted door, which stayed up somehow,

There’d be a yard with grass made of string,

And brown knitted trees, with brown knitted boughs,

And small wind-up birds that can sing!

 

“I tried it, too,” said some older version of me

From somewhere across the hall.

“I tried it, I made it, and now, don’t you see–

“I live in a wood house, after all!”

 

“It was a nice idea, I’ll have that allowed.

“It was the best house on the block!

“And what knitter was ever so proud

“Before I knitted the stores out of stock?”