Mamma when young
sewed clothes as she sung.
Sewed her wedding dress too.
Comforted brothers when they felt blue
By handing them her special quilts
Made especially for them.
The patches weave and crisscross together
In diagonal form, creating diamonds from
The dust, from the thread of sheep’s wool
And sleeping Beauty’s pinprick needle.
She wove within them a magic
For deep dreamy sleep,
A home warming chest possession
But as she has gotten older,
The cancer battles are not over
For radiation took her hand, the grace in her
Fingers, the ability to move needle and thread,
To peel potatoes,
Yet left her in continuity to nurse
And care for others.
Her quilt for me is something different.
For although I never received one
Mamma teaches me to sew my own.
To enjoy passing time away stitching each and every thread
Knowing deep within everything will come together
Everything will turn out fine in the end.
In my dystopian world
She whispers secrets
Gives me keys for wise living
Commands that I see the power of words Igniting within me practicality and hope For all eternity.
She has a given me a gift,
The knowledge of the ability to create myself
And sew my dreams into reality
Even when things look
In the mystery.