She stands stitched between time and tilt,
where clouds curl like spun sugar above stitched spires.
A silent sentinel in vermilion thread,
watching the city breathe in wool and wonder.
Every step is a softened echo,
every shadow dyed in pastel hush.
The train hums a yarn-song to nowhere,
yet she listens, as if it remembers her name.
Her coat is woven from memory’s edge,
her hat, a quiet bell against the storm of color.
She does not move —
she unravels the city with her gaze.
Not lost. Not found.
Just felt.
Made with love and wools
