Verses Scrawled on the Back of an Old Ball Band, Found Abandoned on a Street Corner in Nantucket

There once was a knitter named Nell
Who knit lace like a bat out of Hell.
Said the lass, “My technique
Turns out three shawls a week:
Do it quickly, but not very well.”

There once was a knitter named May
Who went shopping for yarn twice a day.
'Til a sack of wool blend
Caused the shelving to bend
And she drowned in a sea of bouclée.

There once was a knitter named Andy
Who dipped all his needles in brandy.
He said, “After a snifter,
My knitting’s much swifter,
And all of my sweaters smell dandy.”

There once was a knitter named Mary,
Who liked to mix cables and sherry.
She explained, “When I’m pissed,
I can fearlessly twist.
When I work them cold sober, it’s scary.”

These Things Are Pleasant in Winter

I fell asleep last night reading an old favorite, The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon. When I woke up, I lingered in bed and jotted this in my notebook. Because I'm pretentious like that.

These Things Are Pleasant in Winter

• An unexpected lick of warm air from an open door, as one passes by on the frozen sidewalk.
  
  
• The hollow of a man's neck hidden and revealed by the curves of a beautiful scarf.
  
  
• A knife's blade of sunlight slicing the clouds.
  
  
• Stepping from a strong wind into the shelter of one's own doorway.
  
  
• Enough snow to erase the scars from the landscape, but not so much that a pleasant stroll is impossible.
  
  
• The luxury of too many blankets, especially as one wakes beneath them in the morning.
  
  
• The approach of a distant storm, contemplated from a favorite chair while wrapped in a shawl.
  
  
• Streaks of blue water between sheets of white ice on the lake.
  
  
• Rough weather that prevents one from attending a dull party, and gives the gift of many hours to knit without interruption.