The Seamstress Who Mends Time

Her needles click like second hands,

stitching midnights into hemlines—

each dress a living almanac

of seasons worn and weathered.

*For the widow:*

A black gown that blooms camellias

where tears fall,

the silk remembering

how his hands once spanned her waist.

*For the runaway bride:*

A slip made of hourglass sand,

slippery as maybes,

every ruching pleat whispering

*"You have until dawn to change your mind."*

*For the old woman:*

A shroud woven from cradle songs,

threads plucked from her own mother’s hairbrush,

the lace collar rising and falling

with her last steady breath.

Clients call it *couture*.

She calls it *chronometry*.

The fitting room mirror

always shows the year

you needed most.