Handspun

My wife sits in her swivel chairringed by skeins of multicolored yarnthat will become the summer sweatershe has imagined since September.Her hand rests on the spinning wheeland her foot pauses on the pedalsas she gazes out into the swollen river.Light larking between wind and currentwill be in this sweater. So will a shadeof red she saw when the sun went down.When she is at her wheel, time moveslike the tune I almost recognize nowthat she begins to hum it, a lullingmelody born from the draft of fiber,clack of spindle and bobbin, softbreath as the rhythm takes hold.