Whiteness of the Wool

I can feel her tough hard working hands weave my design

Her hands from this close angle are rough at the soft sides of her palm

Where she had washed dishes

And aligned the vustard cups for the elite 

She was a crafter

And she crafted me ding the months of her sitting on her armchair watching days of our lives

She always believed the characters were real

I can feel her hands carefully weave every piece of me into an intricate design

I am that crystal white blanker for her future great grandchild

THe one she never met

Her hands and heart remain in me

As I wrap myself around this baby

She lives on

In the whiteness of the wool