The Old Woman and The Barefoot Maiden (Continuation)

It began slowly. 

First, her step slowed. 

Then, her feet felt heavy, clumsy. 

Her black dog, Musti, 

watched from the door 

as she muttered to herself, cursing herself

mihinkā ihiminen…. Voi Hyvānen aika, aina hukassa 

Her memory had begun to fail her. 

She misplaced things.

She began repeating herself—

and not the old stories she learned as a young girl 

listening to Muori and Faari.

Old Lady Larin once said 

that on the longest darkest night of nights 

in Talvi Kuu—Winter Month—

one could easily find the beginning of the yarn.

What story had she yet to tell?

She busied herself in her pieni mȍkki, her small cabin.

Pian, Pian green would have its song.

Soon, soon young girls would run out into the nightless night, 

trailing white bedsheets, seeking lovers. 

Her twisted fingers reached into the back of the cupboard.

She would need her heaviest blankets now. 

Her felted boots. 

Woolen undershirt. 

She pulled out the red socks with the curious markings

 that she had knit many years ago 

when her fingers, her step, and her laugh were quick. 

Now, her eyes only saw what was not done, 

what was done wrong.