My mother had a sewing box with patterns on the side

With pins on the top that sparkled
when kept beside the fire.

It healed the wounded-
badged the brave
and put excitement back into the dull.

My little hands were prohibited from touching such treasure,
but I watched from a distnace as it transformed a critical daily
garment k into an ensemble worthy of Milan.

It fixed the torn, it helped the ripped and held together the most
stubborn of fabrics.

I believed in magic then.