Precognitive Knitter

Her hands sting a little
when lotion's applied, the knuckles
crackling, a couple of burnt bas reliefs.
To touch them's to touch time, the mortal
immemorial ablaze from day one.
The bones within fingers, the tendons
and vessels shape the spine of some bird
testing its wing span against a sun splay
of shadows. If held up to light
they'd be ruddy and translucent, warm
as an embryo ultrasound traced.
If held up in darkness
they'd be an x ray of palm fronds,
unwithered, impervious.
Sure, she feels the cold easily,
yet can also forecast a rainstorm,
such telepathy an ache, her namesake,
soothsayer---
bright needles pulsing yarn
through the blackest of fabric,
a flower, firm and lovely. Later
the creation, even though stuck
in a closet, will brushfire bristle.
She knows this and knits gently.