The thing about knitting,
Which I learned as an adult,
Is that you have to expect mistakes.

Maybe (like me) you’re not skilled enough 
For the stitches to be automatic.
Or maybe you’re on auto pilot,
But the pattern gets away from you.
So you knit when you should have purled
Or purl when you should have knit.

You learn to accept mistakes.
You may not love them, but they’re part of you.
Like a freckle, or white spots on your nails.

You can always go back and 'frog’ or ‘tink’ stitches,
But the more I knit, the less I want to.

Instead, I think of mistakes
As the moments when I stopped counting, 
Became fully myself, unravelled. 

And what does it matter?
Making these stitches, purely for me.
Writing's the same. They’re my words, I can do what I like.
Listen to them, play with them, lay them down in rows.