Para Drutów

A cosy chair, a steaming mug,
the world outside slows down its pace;
Daisy sleeps, a yarn-ball, snug,
and my first stitch slips into place.

Knit and purl, like give and take,
row by row the hours flow;
the needles hum, and in their wake
my scattered thoughts begin to slow.

If one small stitch should slip and run,
I’ll rip it back and start anew —
no tragedy, no damage done:
the wool forgives, and so can you.

A pair of needles, wool to spare,
the patience of my own two hands —
that’s how a day grows full, and there,
around me, a warm circle stands.