The Sweater She Never Wore

On the cold dawn of December’s third,

Her heart hummed a wistful word.

Each year she dreamed of a woven thread,

A sweater from love, her soul’s homestead.

She watched the others, their gifts held tight,

Woolen warmth in the fading light.

Their laughter rose, a melody sweet,

While she stood silent in the biting sleet.

Envy brewed in her hollow chest,

For the girls who wore what she thought was blessed.

The sweaters spoke of love’s embrace,

Of promises stitched in a sacred space.

But year by year, no thread was spun,

No tender hands, no love begun.

She sat alone, her wishes frayed,

In the icy shadows her heart had made.

One day it struck, like frost on bloom,

It wasn’t the sweater, but who assumed

To gift it with care, to make her see

The worth of her soul, her dignity.

~ Sara D. Aars