The Patchwork Jacket

In the dark of the night, on the black of the street, she sewed her patchwork jacket.
With her face in the light, and her back in the shadows, she turned rags into art.
From the weeds in the ground, and the pine needles in the grass, she made herself needle and thread.
In a last ditch effort to keep herself warm, the girl sewed her own patchwork jacket.
She did not have pockets, for she had nothing to keep in them.
She did not have money, for she lacked a way to earn it.
In her own little way, she contributed to the world, so she could say she wasn't a failure.
In the dark of the night, on the black of the street, she sewed her patchwork jacket.

Rags into art. You brilliant little mind-mite, you. In eight lines you've managed to spin a tale of self-worth vs outer perception with an undertone of hope. Despite describing the black of the night, the dark of the street and how cold it might be for some reason the mood of this little blurb isn't as bleak as I thought it might be, when I started.

Huh.

Might just be me.