Seamstress

A seamstress practices her craft.

The twinkling eye of her
Crystalline needle
Wove in and out of the bases
Of the fern plumes.
She had already crafted the bodice
From sheet moss,
Which laid beside her.

It was dark,
Very dark,
But she was accustomed to it.
Very few times
She came to the entrance of her home
Where the sunlight meekly peeked through
The crumbly cave ceiling
And the rainwater gathered
In a crystalline pool
To gather the lichens and ferns.

The gown she stitches
Is not one of her first;
Many dresses and corsets
Many ensembles and outfits
Have passed over her bare skin
Cool, smooth, white as marble.

Alas, a dress is not fond of keeping
When the materials you work with
Are plucked from their beds
And strung together
As a mad scientist would
With buried specimens of old.
Alas, she had no other choice,
There is no option of running down
To the seamstress, or tailor, or shop.
All that she needed existed within her cave;
It mattered not that her steady handed stitches
Would crumble to the ground as peat and humus.