I'm sitting.
I reminisce on the simple work
of my mother
My soul dances at the thought
of her stitches
The rhythmic in-and-out
of her needle.
She stitches while we sleep
In the pure noise of childhood.
Through fibers she weaved the scents
of her love
In adoration she'd steep the fabrics
of our simple cotton skirts
our dresses of intricate detail.
She'd knit while we dreamt
In the pure noise of childhood.
I am sitting.
I reminisce on the clunk of her machine
stitching memories I can hold (tangible nostalgia)
Her fingers twisted thread and fabric
into skirts, into jumpers
to clothe our tiny bodies.
She sleeps while we sleep
In the sepia comfort of memory.
15th April 2007
Miss Fairytale
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mother-122/
