I whip the hem of my daughter’s skirt
and think of you at the sewing table
polished to the same oiled gloss
as the inlaid darning egg
your eyes as mysterious
as a stocking’s hole stretched against
the elegance of hard wood
covered by a single thread in the clever hand
with its silver thimble.
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Sewing Song
Grandmother Tales
Mother thought secrets went with you to the grave
where they grow mushrooms or push at dry leaves.
The Doll House
Fine furniture made in the late years
between World Wars and marked “Germany”
sits on tiny needlepoint rugs
Mother made one summer.
Always Decisive
At eight years old
she stood in the empty bedroom
of the new house
in Cairo, West Virginia
and said to her six-year-old sister
“This is my room. That one’s yours.”
Spring Cleaning
My daughter says everything in this house
has its own story
from great-grandmother’s quilt
and mother’s ruby depression glass
to things I once unwrapped
from white paper and ribbon
reserved for wedding gifts.
Looking for Perfection
Each fall
I walk the asphalt road
turned to satin
by rain
and search the splatters
of maple leaves
to find one
perfect crimson star
the size of a baby’s hand.
