Home-Made Christmas

Morning hasn't even settled Midnight sediment scattered through The grey beasts that Sail the sky But Mother rocks the landing floorboards And I follow Downstairs Families of dollymix, gingham, polkadot Huddle in cool swirls Cotton roses climbing the kitchen table I sit and silently snip shapes Press my early-hour imagination Shallow into fabric Triangular like chemistry But tired at the edges My mother lifts a needle And creates As mothers do And I watch her Lovingly piece Christmas together Beaded purses, lace angels and silk tress They are her children now I can see it in her smile Full like cinnamon And red like blood We pack our morning into hidden bags and boxes And slip back to bed Sleeping for an hour or two Proud owls tucked in nests.