Ode to Buttons

I always seem to be losing my
buttons.
They're falling off my
winter jackets,
colorful cardigans,
blouses and sleeves.
They leave loose strings
and silly holes among the predictable pattern.

I always collect buttons in a
glass jar.
There are some I've found
on the ground
between parked cars,
blended into carpeting,
forlorn in corners,
and lost in closets.

I have collected many types of
buttons.
Ones with two holes,
some with four;
ones with designs,
some with carvings;
ones that are circular,
some that are square.
Sometimes I wonder if
the possibilities for buttons could end.
Could three holes be poked
instead of four?

I take Wednesday afternoons
to sew on my buttons.
By hand, of course,
because to risk a button under the
plunging needle
powered by the strength
of a machine,
is too large to take.
The first thread through each hole,
hinders a button wobbly
and temporary.
Only several minutes later,
when lines between holes
become thicker and prominent,
does the button stand
with a firm confidence.

Some prefer zippers,
with their quick teeth,
or Velcro,
with its firm grip,
maybe laces,
with the creative freedom of knots.

I prefer buttons.
They slide their way through
slivers between fabric
to stand and appear before us all
in silence and confidence.
They stand with individual pride,
organized into dutiful rows.
They elegantly line
the spine of an anxious bride,
small and white,
just like her teeth,
uncovered by lips parted in a smile.
And just like the hands
grasped between him and I,
do the buttons hold
by the strength of being intertwined.