SPINNING
My mother's spindle
is a slender stick
on a hardwood whorl.
Under her fingers
it spins like a dancer,
winding itself
in twisted yarn.
Under her fingers
it twists the wool
into straight beauty
like a trail of pollen,
like a trail of song.
My hands are not strong enough
to card, very well.
My fingers are not swift enough
to spin, very well.
But my heart knows perfectly
how it is done.
