My mitts
Oh! The glory of letting go
I've thrown the silk rags into open sky
Stained of blood with fabric like a lamb
Drifted into another's grasp
How nice my hands feel!
Biting cold, stinging glass
Unmuted by the cloth
Hopeless, desolate freedom
Runs happily through my veins
And then, if the mood strikes me,
I'll pick up the needles again
My knitting can only improve