Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Polished now in the hallway, my fond antique
Recalling Grandaunt’s delicate craftwork--
Each pattern of fabric threaded with zest,
As her hands would bounce around pinpoint needles,
Weaving an array of doilies rugs garments
Intently absorbed in a foot pedal’s rhythm
That her hums trailed beyond Nam’s bombings :
The war years seemed like only yesterday,
Calming her through spindles of moon’s quick cycle .
Along each evening’s gloss, we rollicked laughed
Exchanging banters like friends… till she crossed over :
Tonight, I gently pat her own quilt laying on my bedside,
Lining our decades of sweet remembrances…
For a moment, my eyes gazed at stars’ fading wicker,
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
Viv Wigley’s Contest: One nine and sixteen
Written 5/1/2018
Categories:
rollicked, memory,
Form: Dramatic Verse