poem inspired by this painting (Sewing by Lamplight) by Richard Edward Miller
image courtesy of paintmania.com
She eases into the stillness, lamplight gathering softly at her arms, a gentle warmth settling over her like a shawl laid down by evening itself. Her shoulders ease, unburdened, as the glow coaxes the hours to loosen their hold at last. The needle glints softly~ a slim sliver of silver light, moon-fine and obedient, resting between her steady fingers. The room is still. Wallpaper fades into amber, shadows gather politely along the baseboards, and the chair beneath her creaks in a language only she and time understand. The world outside is dark, almost bleak, but here~ here the lamplight makes a sanctuary of small things: the curve of her wrist, the soft fall of fabric, the quiet devotion of mending that which can be mended. I can almost smell the warmness of linen, dust, and a hint of lavender~ the scent of evenings when nothing urgent calls, and the simple act of sewing becomes a way of keeping the world stitched together. and Mother needed the comfort of being held in its gentle, golden reach.
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