A Vessel in the Wool

I gathered the weighted beech nut husk into both arms and carried it back along the hall runner. The house had grown quiet for the night. Slipping carefully over the soft rim of my rolled ivory sock, I settled down beside my fastened matchbox chest. In the open woolen cuff near the upright maple seed, I pressed the four-lobed husk firmly into the knit ribbing. The coarse wool yielded just enough to hold its rounded base secure. It sits upright now beside my little chest, a tiny wooden bowl waiting in the quiet.