Her cloak was tattered torn
She’d worn well and rough
Each blemish: a different story.
A library on her back.
We sat and she told each one
And I listened faithfully.

Then, while she rested peacefully,
My busy hand went to work.
Not a single wound could I fix.
Ashamed, dejected, I snuck back
And hung her cloak on the chair it called bed.

That morning she told me another story
One of how a tailor tried to fix a cloak,
A cloak as worn as hers, and failed.
How not every ragged cloak should be fixed,
That every blemish is a reminder of another story.

I never told her.
But she knew.
She’d always known.
That old cloak still hangs round her neck
With a new stain on the hood.

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