rosa, sky blue

In a roomful of fabric, your mind creates dresses.
Tiny stitches along the bias, grosgrain, organza clouds,
no machine. The nightly whir when your fingers were
deft, knocking me up a calico pinafore, mending holes.
It’s funny how an age gap decreases with time.

Once I was child and you were the adult. Now we are merely
two old women, bolt to bolt. Our hands trace the changing
texture of cloth.
Between the remnants you work an imaginary spindle
matching colour to thread invisible rows, folding a neckline
hand-ruching a cinch, careful craftsmanship, grasping each edge of cloth
like a lifeline, your oddments to my ends.
How easy it would be to stay in this space
never aging. I could watch you sew in my mind
each outfit more beautiful as it scatters into the perfect air
between us, breaking down into cellulose and fibre.