The button's gone loose again

The button's gone loose again,

a tiny threat

on my old coat's frayed edge.

Can't keep this thing near

when the air gets so thin.

It makes everything near

seem brittle, a kind of skin.

Grandmother's basket, wood chipped,

threadbare inside,

a musty, sweet smell.

Thimbles, dull, unused.

Then the spool. Small,

almost bare, dark green

like the first spring leaf,

before it's seen

the sun's harsh gleam.

Just a few turns left,

of cotton, dry to the touch.

Dust motes in the weak light, drift.

A worn-out core, not much.

What did she mend with this,

her fingers quick and wise?

A seam, a tear, some small amiss?

It holds her quiet eyes.