Beneath the Needle
I am black enamel, chipped at the wheel
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Beneath the Needle
A grandmother’s sewing machine speaks from the spare room where the work moved elsewhere. It remembers cuffs, curtains, loose buttons, and the precise way a seam comes back in line; it does not ask to be kept, only to be placed where it can still do what it was made to do.
I am cast iron, thread, and oil / With a narrow throat and drawer
Listen for close fingerpicked guitar, a cello that enters only near the song’s turn, and a voice that stays just above the room. This belongs in late light, during quiet work, or while clearing a room without rushing.
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