I remember my father knitting heads.
Broad back pressed flat
against the rails of his chair,
he leans back,
one knee-bent, woolen-footed leg
braced against the window ledge.
Tension flows down
the sweather-thickened arm,
along the ladder of cotton twine,
to a nail anchored in the window sill.
January thaw is come and gone
and frost thickens on the window panes.
Outside the yard is rusty
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