There’s a soft patter

of mice in the attic,

as they rummage around

in cardboard boxes,

opening their eyes

to the brilliant streak of sunlight

from the crack of the attic door

that never quite shuts all the way.

 

Late great, great grandmother

swaying away

in her creaking,

wooden rocking chair

her metallic needles

clicking against one another—

fencing swords
brawling against each other—

in her hands

as her yarn weaves itself together,

loops upon loops upon loops,

wisps of silver peeking out

from under her woolen cap.

 

It’s almost as if

she’s opening her eyes

to the brilliant streak of sunlight

from the crack of the attic door

that never quite shuts all the way.