remembering my little grandmother, and how dresses just grew from her capable hands.
her furrowed hand smoothes the printed flowers
grey eyes clouding she breathes the
fragrance of a summer meadow from fifty snows ago.
sweeping a thumb she draws a curve
takes up the shears, slices between bright blooms
forms the neckline, slants a shoulder.
sails in at the waist, swings out over the hip
flips the cloth to cut the other side,
feeds it gently into the teeth of the
mumbling old Singer,
slips the done dress over her head
Queen of the May once more.
