Cheating

She sat at the oak table stringing beads,
each specimen carefully lifted and inspected.
In one hand the gossamer string; it quivered
as blood pulsed her finger pads.
With windows opened to the spring chirping of birds,
she threaded: a small clink joined the silence of the kitchen.
This was factory work with grace. She continued.
Her threading lasted until I came home,
stringing lies in my head.