That I could see her one more time

Her gray curls thin and texture fine,

Such beauty in her barely wrinkled face

Such peril in her deep brown eyes.

Her busy feet her old Singer treddled

While nimble fingers guided brightest print,

Day on top of day passing

Whirring, humming, each well spent.

I warmed in front of the old gas stove,

Ornate grates, backed with asbestos

Admiring and staring, staring, admiring

Her delicate fingers, deceptively untiring.

The day she was gone from her housewife’s labors,

One little house shoe lay empty behind,

How I wish I could see her, hear her sewing

Just one more time.

Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)