I ask myself what is the point of this?
It isn’t for the product.
The thing that is made.
The end point.

If I wanted a pair of socks they are easy enough to buy.
Even the nice ones made of merino wool.
Even patterned ones with stripes.

So why spend the hours building stitch by stitch?

It is the satisfaction of taking the thread and two or more needles, working around,the doing.

It is the miracle of this thing.
Made by the ingenuity of two hands and a bit of wool.

Why do I write?
Not for the ending.
Not for the words.
Not for their meanings.

I write for the doing. 

For the cadence pulled out of little more than air.
For the moment the seed forms and grows out of me.
For the way pen meets paper and it materializes.

And if something comes out of it that is any use, it is 
just an afterthought.

A lucky happenstance.

And if nothing comes of it
Pay it no mind.