The wool of the sheep lying in her lap,
my mother would make me a warm sweater.
The long thin needles would then go snap-snap
with a smile blessing the coming weather.
Her hands would knit, the emotions would churn,
a steaming cup of coffee idled by.
The spool of memories unrolled and spun,
threads of the past to let the present fly.
Sometimes I watched as she silently stitched.
The design of her thoughts would calmly fit.
Where all my patience would constantly itch,
her piece of art would glow but bit by bit.
At times I wish all seasons to be cold-
just to wear my yellow sweater of old.
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