Butter and Wool
"I'm just trying to imagine
what three pounds feels like,"
my wife says as we drive north.
In her hands is a thicket of purplish gray yarn
and five slender bamboo needles.
"Three packages of butter," I tell her.
Her hands stop.
"That's a tiny baby," she whispers,
then goes back to knitting:
her long, clerical fingers
pushing the wooden needles
through tight tunnels of wool.
I stare ahead at the other cars on the turnpike
and imagine that each tow-hook or tailpipe
has tied to it a fat, unending piece of yarn.
As I signal and drift to the left,
the car in front of me drifts right,
and I see the pattern
we weave on the road—
knots and loops pressed on hot pavement—
as we all drive home.
Floating Wolf
