Black and gold, wooden and bold
Four steel legs pressed up against the window sill
Sepia sunlight streams onto the lacquered surfaces
Of my grandmother’s sewing machine
Silvery slices made by thick metal scissors
Fabric falls onto the red polished floors
There was once a queen who lived far away...
A 70 year old eye threads the needle
She spins the rhythmic wheel
Her small, smooth, bare feet peddle the beast
As she coaxes the cloth through the gates of formation
The drawer of buttons raucously rattles
Her mind is peaceful and wonderous
Faithful fingers affix each round in place
Tiny snips to tidy the frays
That bit in the story
The one between the cut of the cloth and the tugging of sewn thread
How the queen sits on her throne
Weaves in and weaves out
Of my memories