Generations

there is a knitting-lady
who made me a pillowcase, it is there
alongside my cat-furred cushions and night-time crystals that I
leave under my pillow
she is there at night time
burrowing through my skull like a
soft drill
I never think of her
but I think as her and
she thinks through me and
I think that when
she knit me this case,
and gave it to me,
she really knew me.

As I grow closer to knitting lady's age
and I've long left that little girl's place,
I find that her loneliness whispers in my ear
 now whenever a little
girl is near
I feel an outpouring of some
nameless love
it must be the knitting-lady,
smiling through me from above.