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.