Magic in Her Fingers

The Peregrine Reads

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Underneath the scotching sun, she sits with her crotchets
With swamps of piercing hums, beneath her every breathe
About to craft another stroke of genius
With wool and pins and some magic fingers
Of Men, unknowing of the fabric they wear
And kids’, pacing about the place in colorful wears
She makes such beauties— with the magic in her fingers!

In and out, In and out
She works her fingers from west to east
Her sharp pale eyes blurred out with dreams
Merrily joining and stitching, seam to seam
Fat loopy yarns, repeatedly dancing around her legs
And she would raise her chin in pride and toss her silky hair
Carefully telling a story —with the magic in her fingers!

As unskilled and overlooked though the job,
It lit up her soul and to her heart restored joy
Patched-up torn tissues, seamlessly weaving broken dreams
Turned a lonely spot…

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