Out of Nothing

Like the old woman
in the shoe, she makes do
with bits of twine,
straw from a broom,

finds three hands
when she has only two
for patching, mending,
tending a bevy of children.

Honeysuckle holds up the leaning shed.
She saves odd buttons, old flour sacks.
A glass becomes a vase for clover,
the chance of luck.

When summer blooms,
she gathers peaches
from the weathered tree,
a bucket of suns for supper

and then under night's indigo bowl,
gleans silver from a sliver of moon.