moving

everything is in the truck
dishes, slipper socks, shovel,
kids' works of art
and the rocking chairs
that swayed them as infants to sleep.
one day life is there
the next day, 400 miles over here
her things no longer in a natural state
not scattered on a work table
or stacked in cupboards
but padded in knotted bags
and crumpled boxes called miscellaneous

the morning scone and iced tea
of Yesterday's Café
is no longer in walking distance -
the world is a broken thought

then the knitting bag comes to view
the worn needles, the yellow yarn
the quarter-of-the-way-finished scarf
she knits and clicks and tugs the yarn
until the disconnected yesterday
is woven to this day,
the street in the world back there
is linked after all
to the street over here
in a zizag puzzle kind of way