[Editor's note: The following poem has previously appeared in the literary  journal Diviners and in the exhibit "Visual Poetry II" at the Piano Nobile Gallery in the Centennial Concert Hall].

In Her Day

Buttons of all shapes and sizes
plucked from a collection
of cast-off clothing,
zippers painstakingly excised
from unfashionable pants
and dresses,
every item surveyed
sized up before
its ultimate dissection.

A flannel shirt back
resurrected as an apron
a bouncy crinoline reborn
as a doll’s wedding dress
and a tired wool jacket
transformed by
a brocade lining.

every scrap
every bit

“In my day,”
Baba told us
“Nothing
went to waste . . .

You had to . . .
to survive.”      

Helping to while away
cold winter hours
of an early widowhood,

every garment
embodying her memory.

“Something useful;”
she would have shrugged.

A designer of no illusions.