Mending

Mending

It came to breaking down her things,
Into small parcels, into the hands of the ones she had loved.
And I went away clutching the small straw sewing basket,
To be stashed away, in a secret place,
And retrieved again on quiet nights,
Or in those early morning hours when she is close,
To trace my fingers over the odd assortment of
Smooth round buttons, crinkled foil packets of darning needles,
And tangles of colored threads,
All woven together in a curious tapestry
embraced now, as my own