A Knitted Day

One morning
I woke with the sun,
wearing my face, and I knitted
until all the dropped stitches
and the joining ends were
no more than pale specks in the light.

Perhaps I should have spun
sideways and turned on
the kerosene lantern
that lay upon the wardrobe bay
when the thick clouds curtained
the outside dim.

Instead, I let the night
crochet my dainty feet,
patch tight the fractured skin
where the thin bone of the needle
narrowed into wool.

Then it wove the gold moon
into the strands
of my French twist
as I trailed it
behind me
to sleep.