My mother made her own clothes. She grew in a family
Of thrift, a child of depression who longed
For beauty, the simple lines of flowers
Bolting in the hayfields before the mowing tore
Them down. She once said she wove garlands from
The bleeding stems. Already cutting was the start
Of reconstruction, the effort to restore.
Pattern books were her bible, but it was
The bright bolts of fabric that called her name,
The field of colors across the walls
Before the winnowing and narrowing down,
Choosing, in the end, so some piece of dream
Might start toward beauty, pinned and cut
Below the needle, my mother’s shining eyes.
The original version of this poem was first published on day 1 of the Writer’s Digest April Poem-a-Day Challenge (http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2014-april-pad-challenge-day-1). It’s an honor to have it selected as one of the top ten poems of the day by judges Robert Lee Brewer (editor of the blog) and guest judge Traci Brimhall (www.tracibrimhall.com).