Guiding fingers and thumbs I sit with 
Andrea, nine years old, fists tight on needles 
that sing like raindrops seeking their pace
 on a tin roof. We both long for the rhythm 
of stitches easing from needle to needle 
untroubled as spring lambs following ewes.  

After an hour, there is a small swatch, 
soft as moss’s fleece with latticework 
intricate even with its youthful flaws— 
mighty in the way it binds us.