My small hands look so frail.

Their stark whiteness

against the black silk

reminds me.

I will make neat stitches.

Neat stitches.

Why are my hands so clumsy?

I watch as the scissors

slip from my shaking fingers

and fall. They barely make a sound

on the hard floor.

Delicate and beautiful,

she could have held them

in time.

I am cold.

The fire is out.

Night has crept into the room

and covered my table,

my sewing box,

the tiny scissors

and the black silk bonnet

lying in my lap.

My needle hangs down,

motionless,

and in the darkness,

the empty crib

does not rock.