my maternal grandmother, Helen Claribell Morain-Stainbrook
poem submited to "1479" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, June 7, 2026
My grandmother kept elegance in every worn-out thing, showing me how age can soften the world. Her hands, lined like well-traveled maps, held stories, and nothing flawless ever felt as warm. Showing me how age can soften the world, she taught me to trust the beauty of the used. And nothing flawless ever felt as warm, as the quilt she mended one frayed square at a time. She taught me to trust the beauty of the used, to see how cracks cradle what is true. As the quilt she mended one frayed square at a time, I learned that imperfection is its own kind of love. To see how cracks cradle what is true~ her hands, lined like well-traveled maps, held stories. I learned that imperfection is its own kind of love; my grandmother kept elegance in every worn-out thing.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
