Under a patch wide, so verdant green
This lovely, old lady sits on warm porch
Swarmed by choral tunes of early birds,
Her veined fingers twist in graceful motion
Kneading blades from stalks and hued grass,
To mold curves into shape, touched by love
While fluid eyes hum as bands entwine.
Till weeks alight requesting for night’s quiet rest,
Yet mornings lift hands on the same shade
Pinning tiny beads embossed like rows of wreaths
Crisscrossed strips finally twirl in dainty pattern
The perfect mingling of straws looped in elegance;
Finally, the night before a most special ceremony
When aisles of the church prepare my young walk,
Grandma smiles tearily and hands me...
My first woven flower-girl basket.
* I was told that Grandma lost her interest
in weaving when she cut her palms. After 5 years,
she began crafting when she found out I was the only
flower-girl to his son's wedding ( my uncle).
Contest: Kim Morrison's True Story
by nette onclaud