She gathers the light,

spools a golden bolt of sunshine

through her sewing machine,

stitching a sunbeam into straw,

the fabrics of ordinary, homely things:

a tablecloth, curtains, skirts.

a dress, blouses, pants, shirts.

She is a sort of Rumpelstiltskin

in reverse, this woman who looks

so much like my grandma, I can almost see

me, in the shadowed margin at her feet,

playing with baby doll & clothes– a birthday gift

for keeps, a gilded wardrobe

tailored in miniature and prodigal detail–

all the while, spellbound

watching her careful foot on the pedal,

listening, wishing to name the whirr of her

chiaroscuro

magic.