Pulling one loop through another, over and over, the knitter creates fabric and garment at the same time, shaping as she goes. It seems almost magic to me.
Magic, also, is the way a finished garment can echo the roving from which it sprang.
That bamboo roving had a subtle gleam and a sinuous drape; so did the skein of sport-weight yarn I spun from it; so does the lacy cover-up it morphed into. Form was changed by the knitter's hands, yet substance remains the same.
When I went rummaging through my stash, thinking "light and liquid," the bamboo roving practically jumped up and down, "Me, me, me!"
Most knitters don't have roving to listen to, but yarn can do the same, if it's in skeins rather than balls. Think like a designer in the yarn shop. Open the hank and let it float or dangle from your hand. Crunch it up; spread it out. Imagine it draped densely or loosely on the body.
Even through the yarn, the roving can speak.