The Seamstress
Fingers mingle
with the branches
of the spindle-weary trees
bent down,
caressing flesh,
and writing music
from the crisp and leafy
brownish crunch
of Autumn’s tender
hazy night
spun wet with mist,
whirling ebony
and whispers,
eager through the gate,
to kiss the black-eyed
hairy-leggéd Gertrude,
buttoned rainbow
in her best,
spinning
like a toad-stool goblin,
nimbly darning
Mama’s last umbrella.