Mother's Sewing Machine

Her fingers, flying fast The ticking of the machine beneath her steady hands Her eyes, watchful. In that big room, surrounded by fabric, She feels at home her body, relaxed. And that little sewing machine, ticking twenty-four, seven. Never let her down, even in the toughest times. Her hair, pulled back. Her brown eyes shining. Her hands going back and forth. Finally, something comes out. A finished art, A piece of pride and accomplishment. Her fingers come to a halt, the ticking fades away. In her hands is a masterpiece, A wonder on display.