The seamstress spins up the bobbin
full and heavy with cotton thread.
Like a painter loading a paint brush,
she feels the urgency of the fabric
riding the clatter of the sewing machine.
The frenetic warmth of manufacture,
the magic of making casts a sewing spell.
Today she sits stitching sadness,
making masks draws a cataract over
creativity until the gift stops giving.
It eats at the soul as a chore or penance,
concealing, hiding, nothing appealing.
Design, range, colour, old or new
masks offer up the same bleak hue.