The seamstress

With fingers weary and worn,
And eyelids heavy and red,
Long after the house sleeps,
Still in her chair she sits.

Her needle flickering, in-out,
Daylight nears and the fire burns low,
Alone with her shirt, still she sews.

She, held prisoner by her thread,
Her heads nods, but sleep forbids,
Just one more seam or button two.

Listen brothers, sons and husbands all,
Call it not just cotton, linen or only wool,
Count each stitch and say a prayer,
For heart and soul that put them there.

Author: Nancy B. Brewer