The Seamstress Speaks

I stared at the fair eye
as empty as light, a small target
for heavy thread.

Nine crows were lifting
from the chestnut tree, stitching cold air
with a premature darkness.

I took pride
in my vibrant rows of spools.
Fooled by the drape and cut

of elegant cloth,
the pleasure of completion,
I counted all my seams whole

and paid no mind when sky poked through,
a random gap no larger
than a feather's sharp tip.

In my summer evenings
the rent increased,
let in the breath of the world.