Lost to backdrops scrolling past, She sits knitting in the carriage of a train. The vague needles They scintillate and glimpse With the cadence of the wheels – Upbeating ceaselessly.
Strips of tiny loops And eyelets like dewdrops Of condensation Grouped on the superior rim.
Once in a while, She gives a heave To loosen more yarn from the skein Of Filipino-made wool, brushed worsted weave. Spun and carded from the richest fleece, Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.
The needles flash, With ancient rhythms and attack Of duellists in their chainmail coats. With little hesitation she can tack From plain to purl to blackberry. Count back by rote or slip a stitch While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.
All gather profusely in her lap, As windfall trove, rich-patterned And warm with peach-fuzz nap, All crafted from a single line of yarn. Marvels fall continuously from wise Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.