She sits and briskly knits, her needles clack,
and grimly add the seconds of her life.
Her head is bent so she won't see his chair
whose vacancy insists 'no longer wife.'
She chooses factory-wound wool, as skeins
would underline his absence, sharpen need
for deft controlling thumbs to gather threads,
his held-out arms that always took the lead.
And at her knee she taught me purl and plain;