She started sewing bloomers
With “Quaker Oats” across the seat.
She soon found, with some stitching,
Flour sacks made a good bedsheet.
When folks would discard clothing
That they thought beyond repair,
She’d say, “Turn the damn thing inside out.
It’ll never show the wear.”
Grandpa’s coat became son’s parka,
The hood all trimmed with fox,
Lined with Grandma’s satin housecoat
And cuffs from worn-out socks.
Every piece of fabric stirred her
To some new creative height.
She’d curse and coax that old machine
To sew halfway through the night.
Her sole reward was the pride she felt,
After hours on the stool,
When she watched her lovely works of art
Parade to Sunday school.
Even now that she is older,
She still cannot relax.
She sits by her beloved sewing machine,
Contemplating all those scraps.
When I finally go to Heaven,
I’m sure I’ll find her there,
Madly stitching clouds together
To repair the ozone layer.
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- Tags: Poetry