The Cashmere Sweater

Small bits of fibre spindled by a pin
The girl whispers in fret, not knowing how to begin
The room is disordered, and her mind is stuck
She could not comprehend her luck

A ball of wool, a couch of needles
A yard of grass swarmed with beetles
Endless nights and shortened days
Colored threads and beads in trays

Her measuring tape is a forbidden maze
with a careful smile and timid gaze
Laboured patterns tossed in bins
Her patience is wearing thin

Dusk comes and falls once over
Bright eyes begin to lower
A perfect fit for anyone really
Clouded thoughts call her silly

Who would ever believe
What was beneath her sleeve?