Button Tin  

I sit with my legs crossed.
Tip the contents out
scattering reds and blues
amongst the bones
some on their skin
others on crumpled cards
Most, randomly nestled together.

I watch over
ladybugs that can’t fly
anchors that won’t sink
kittens with six. straight. whiskers.
flowers with no scent
sharks with no bite.

Snipping orange scissors
turning fabric sheets into magic.
Pinned tissue as her guide
Vogue and Simplicity inspired
the next move, the next stitch.

I care less about decorum
Much more about comfort
one leg straight
enamelled ice cream cones
peaking from behind disks with holes.
After years of play, sorted
Like colour with like
Neat and tidy, unlike life.

My legs spread wide
I can’t cross them anymore.
Green and earthly highlights
conversation of divorce; hers then mine
twisting that string of diamanté.
ending near
but the sparkle never faded.

What happened to her button tin.

 I gave it to the lady down the road –
She sews a bit

– Frances Carleton