I darned a pair of socks tonight and
I felt my mother’s hand from long ago
Working a crisscross weave over a hole,
An eruption where smooth lines used to run
In a grain of how things were meant to be:
All smooth and predictable instead of
This exploded loss of former certainties.
The hand that guided that precious needle,
The sureness of her steadiness and thread
Wafted through my trenches of doubt and fear
In an even pattern of steadfast gait
Until the hole no longer showed
Except, of course, for its scar —
Reminder of both interruption and reconnection
Knitting within the peace of knowing
All will be all right.