As straight as a rod, her clothes are eccentric,
paper and airy fabric draw circles that are concentric
One day her hair is red the next it is blue, the wool on her spindle too: a soft pink ball when her mood is good, as black as the night when she is not all right.
The patterns she whirls, spins and weaves reflects her way of being.
We see her dancing with elegance even her life “is hanging by a thread”.
Juggling wool balls, her hands criss cross threads with visible and invisible hands, until the beholder in wrapped in a colorful whirl.
She spins dreams, secrets and hidden thoughts, all carefully weaved.
Though they are sewn and perfectly sealed, sometimes in a whisper they are revealed and thoughts and dreams and secrets drift in the air, until they reach ears that are far away
