Her love is in the seams, the lengths of lace,
the afternoons spent being patient,
while I wasted another length of material,
attempting a pattern beyond my skill.

Her love is in the dresses I’ve outgrown but can’t toss out,
each piece of each finished dress,
cut out on the floor as she bent over from the waist,
flat feet padding over fabric, rustling pattern paper.

In this demure dove-grey, made for my first job,
thin black ribbon at the collar, tied in a bow.

In the last dresses she made me, crepe-chiffon,
with full-circle sleeves and rolled necklines,
one a dusky faded pink, the other
autumn-yellow, falling leaves.