My cloak is pieced from the oldest hills:
each scrap snipped
from an older quilt.
I am not soft, I am not fair.
I live in a tower with my wheel,
a mirror that tells me all.
When I shake my featherbed
the snow begins to fall.
The world goes on while I stitch and spin
or sit and knit while the tumbrels roll;
line by line the tale unfolds.
My needles click the even rows.