Here is how the hands dance, the wrist
knows the music of extending the yarn
until it has arrived at the point before
breaking, then the gentle tug from the cotton
bundle in the other hand, making syrup
of fabric, twisting this delicate thing
into the making of the beauty and warmth
that adorns us.
Their eyes
must study the delicate balance
of the world, every line has its end,
the wheeling in—and it’s beginning,
the stretching out.
Stare at this act
of patience, you will grow sleepy
with the assurance that these dark-limbed
women carry the balance of the world
in their dancing hands.
Every craft is a magical metaphor
for the body’s training. Soon we become
slaves to the spindle and yarn.
