She was an avid knitter,
needles moving effortlessly in arthritic hands,
fingers counting infinite stitches,
row after row after row after row,
a rainbow of scratchy socks and sweaters
born under her watchful eye,
days bled into nights into years in that armchair,
a basket of yarn by her side,
boundless balls for handmade labour,
she moaned at the failing light,
until the needle finally dropped.
I have a drawer full of her socks waiting for the first snow.















