Vol 11, Num 8 :: 2012.04.13 — 2012.04.26
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Alone before the flock
I knit
my prayer
from fibers sheared and spun
by hand — of birth
and bleating, death
and slaughter — crunch
of constant hunger.
If the wolf
should, silent, near us,
it is I who must stand firm
between its glare
and these, my creatures,
though their heads be buried, low.
My assurance, like a whisper,
is the movement of just one head,
quick, uplifted, raised from danger,
caught by eye sense in the back of
my own head, alerting, “Watch!”
Or knit, knit and pray.
Photo source: Jean Francois Millet, c. 1857, The Knitting Shepherdess (La Bergère à tricoter)
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