Rolling down the fingers,
Strands of wool hang.
Ticking of knitting needles,
Emit a melodious chant.
With loops interlocking;
And patterns crisscrossing,
Strands of wool continue to hang.
Delicate and shiny,
Like birches of the old tree,
From the creeks and crevices, they sprang.
Pink, green, yellow, and blues,
Exhibiting altogether varying hues.
With little colored planets revolving all around,
All gazers are left with nothing, just spellbound.
From sun, and stars to rabbits and weeds,
It’s countless patterns of the rainbow that grandma sees.
Cozy mufflers to socks and gloves,
Piles of stuff rest;
With all claiming crest,
And none aiming trough!