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.
I watched you marshal armies of spools
as you taught me about sharps and crewels
how to cross a stitch, baste, darn and join.
I learned that love
lies in crisp taffeta and pleats of plaid
circles the throat in lace-edged collars
is always brand new and has its own song.
I whip the hem of my daughter’s skirt
and when I hear the eye of my needle
rasp against your thimble
I know you.
©2006, Janet Taliaferro
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