Delicate milky buttons.
I am torn whether to destroy it,
or to pass the gift on whole –
that darn dilemma of taking or giving.
Forgive me for taking.
At the time I could not give,
I had nothing. Not even a button.
Not a sou, not a shekel, not a shilling.
My needle and thread serve me witness
for the cloth I have damaged.
See me make amends, squinting,
puncturing the fabric from the inside out.