The big machines that rip
and comb and card,
the train cars and milling,
the dyeing vats—all that
noise and smell and heat
yet you come calm
and quiet into my house,
wound into skeins,
banded and mounded
into piles of reds and pinks,
violets and blues, cream
and browns and greens.
I offer the relief
of hands
after the big machines
and you, white-haired
wisdom of the field intact,
you offer my hands
back to me.