Binary Fleece

Checkered gingham sprints across circuit boards.
Intricate fiber-optics weave-over, under-patterns
soon taking shape.
Cooling fans and spindles
(don't touch-those are expensive)
wait, anxious to be utilized, like acrylics
upon my palette.
But this isn't holy-only art.

And I'm Betsy Ross, wielding
a soldering iron.
You'd never guess whose sheep
birthed this abrasive wool.

Sixteen-hundred, two-thousand ten-regardless-time
lacks bearing on creation.
In a hive of terabytes, where most-over fifty-fear
to tread, I thrive.
But antiseptic lab coats,
eerily analogous
to seamstress' rags,
eventually lost their Hazmat quality.

Denizens of the latest century,
defined as artisans, exist
solely to generate.
But where does this corollary
leave those who create
that which destroys?

Whether weaving silk or Cray-meticulous-the
process remains identical:
Seek out purpose and design will follow.
Newfangled gadgets have Roman roots.
My motherboard is knitting-needle scratched.