Your work depends on the needle. Thread is in abundance on shelves in closets. You have moths doing work in the silk barn. But the needles, rare as diamonds and burrowing like small children playing in sheet tents.
Like minors would, you roll up your sleeves and dig and climb. “A shovel is too much”, you say to the chicks pecking the ground for stray seeds. You say, “The need is great. The men need shirts, and women skirts. These needles like gems, I will find. It is my job, same as it is to smile and spread feed for you in the morning sun.”
Your hands ever soft sifting through piles of golden hay. You wonder which you enjoy most; the elegant gowns made by you hung from lines strung between two mulberry trees under a spring sky, or the moments spent moving the dog from his nap to find a thousands pins ready like jewels all along resting.