We all wore clothes our mothers sewed

by hand from tissue paper patterns

spread on kitchen tables and cut

with pinking shears along the pinned

dotted lines. No one was ashamed.

We all wore clothes our mothers sewed.

None of us were rich. None were poor.

Children accept things as they are.

God forgive the child who came home

with muddy knees or ripped out seams.

We all wore clothes our mothers sewed.

Those clothes they sewed were theirs, not ours.

Things wear out. Threads break. Stitches rip.

The dingy are given away.

Yet, like children, deep in our souls,

we still wear clothes our mothers sewed