Brown hair, now white
hunched over a worn linen cloth
bearing the marks of tiny crosses that
are ill placed
a line that is far from distinguished and straight.
Her fingers shake as the needle slides in
Aged hands with callused soles
fail to feel the prick of the pin.
She continues mending,
sewing patches of color against broken fabric.
A weary sigh from the young
makes her quicken her pace.
Another stab from the thread laced tool,
the garment again whole but not pretty.
Gratitude forgotten as it is ripped from her hands.
Love knows no end.