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