Aunt Inga never spoke much as the yarn she scanned
With a gentle touch she pulled each fuzzy strand
She tied all knots with knitting needles in her hand
With age spots and varicose veins her skin was spanned
The patterns that she wove fell in wrinkles at her side
Silently her hands dove leaving sprinkles of holes tied
Knit colored purl dreams live on and like her silently have not lied
In stiches of yarn schemes, an old woman and her work that never died