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.