Belief in the thread consoles, redeems. The warm
ease of your ceaseless hands draws down
the twill-flecked light. Beyond the windowpane,
stars shred themselves and drift across silk, seams for
your later eyes to follow. Now,
deft in work, the blue irises feed through
each pass of the needle, riddle the
carcass of the cotton-flower. There is
always work, and always another hour. Your
spare form, clothed in a loose blouse and
the sweating air: stale and harried, yet
rising, constellated with the remnant sparks. You,
only sewing. Something else is joined together.
“Seamstress” is an acrostic poem dedicated to its subject, whose name is
spelled by the first letter of each line.
by Ralph Culver
Editor’s Note: A portrait of a person can be done with words—this poem goes beyond description and into movement and character, giving the reader a sense of purpose instead of a mere reflection.
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