she sits at her spindle,
slender fingers dancing in time
as foot hits pedal, as hopes spin into reality.
her palms are damp with sweat,
her back aching from the strenuous work of
turning wishes into tulle, aspirations into thread,
plastering bodices with ambitions,
flaring skirts into actuality.
pins sticking out of her mouth,
she pins my gossamer dreams against the hem,
so they catch the evening breeze as i
twirl into the heavens.