the dressmaker

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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.