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The needle stings but sews
Grandmother sits in her rocking chair
nearly as old as she
ragged patches of scrap spread across her lap.
She tells stories from her eighty years of senescence,
of faces now aged, some no longer bound by this earth
as though they were still enjoying the blessings of youth-
as fresh in her mind as the daisies and buttercups I picked for her this morning
and placed beside her chair;
its occasional accompanying squeaks affirming her words from time to time.
She did not know then that she was sewing two blankets for me;
weaving quilts of words
from patterns of memories
patching good times to bad
making one smooth blanket of emotions.
The needle stings-it's true
but only so little by comparison
to the warmth it provides
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