the whispering draw of the leafy, woolen line rubbing along her fingers,
as the needles clickety-clicked...
loop upon loops.
some back some forward some gaps....
as the other she circled around her legs, impatient.
row upon row in a comfortable rhythm,
although not fast enough for the second she's liking
one hour blended to two,
windows dark against the rain,
tail swishing swapped for curled purring.
it takes time.
it takes the contented pace of slowness
all that is good is not fast and all that is fast is not good.
and the cadence of the breathy purrs
and the needles slipped back in the bag.