My most profound apologies to Mr. Poe...
Once upon a midnight steamy, while I pondered tired and dreamy,
Over many a chart, stitch and yarn o'er.
While I counted, nearly cross-eyed, suddenly there came a creaking,
As if someone gently sneaking, sneaking down the upper stairs.
"'Tis too late, much too late to be someone coming down the upper stairs,
My imagination and nothing more."
As I counted tiny stitches, quietly the stairs kept creaking,
Tiny footsteps, softly sneaking, big blue eyes, quietly peeking,
Peeking 'round the hallway door.
'Twas a boy, my little boy, and no other.
"Mommy, what are you doing," he whispered,
As he tiptoed 'cross the hardwood floor.
"Knitting," I replied, to this little boy of four.
He watched me count the loops once more.
Then he answered. "I want some knitting."
Oh these words, they made my heart sing,
'Til I knew, he wanted special knitting,
He wanted to knit my lace mohair.
Dropping, tinking, frogging all three
Flashed before my eyes suddenly.
As the room stopped flipping, spinning
I promised the boy some knitting
We'd find some worsted and size eights,
But not that night, 'twas much too late!