Jumbo snowflake dances and winter chill hits the soul, and from the knitting box the colorful yarn rolls. A knitting needle swift enough to knit poem into a cardigan, knitting my stress away and having loads of fun! Filling in holes with wool in the depth of the frozen day, Spring are you there? Yet again my heart prays. I cannot count my day complete, till needle, yarn and fingers meet. Memories are stitched with love. Keep calm and carry Yarn.

Mending the soul. Filling in holes with wool.

Winter strips the leaves and the beautiful leaves grow old. No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. Nature listening. A million little suns (snowflake) drops; nature most delicate things, but just look what they can do when they stick together. Coming together, sharing together, working together, and succeeding together. Less me, more we.

Gripped with bitter cold, ice-locked, vision blurred with dense fog. The cold sun is just setting bashing some colder lavender hill. I wonder if the snow loves the trees and field, as it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt. The road is soaked with rain and sparkling under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of symphony. The evening lacked none of winter’s rough poetry.

It's only knitting and it's one of the few times in your life when there are no bad consequences to a mistake.

But unvented - ahh! One un-vents something; one unearths it; one digs it up, one runs it down in whatever recesses of the eternal consciousness it has gone to ground. I very much doubt if anything is really new when one works in the prehistoric medium of wool with needles. The products of science and technology may be new, and some of them are quite horrid, but knitting? In knitting there are ancient possibilities; the earth is enriched with the dust of the millions of knitters who have held wool and needles since the beginning of sheep. Seamless sweaters and one-row buttonholes; knitted hems and phoney seams - it is unthinkable that these have, in mankind's history, remained undiscovered and unknitted. One likes to believe that there is memory in the fingers; memory undeveloped, but still alive.