My Mother's Hands
The past rests gracious beneath
my feet. Facing two directions
they want to run some other way
kick over old defences
before the numbing fear
that laps against my throat
screams the insult of life's choices
little cushion for a grief met face to face
Stoop to kiss the down
Of what is left behind
I can only remember gentle hands,
resolved to push vivid
strands of wool through
canvas, arrogant, impregnable
You stitched a dress
for my seventh birthday. Green
as the sea that flowed between
our visions of the world, threw red
flannel quilts across my bed;
clucked and squawked
at my blue jeans until I finally ran
Rich purple freshly tied,
gawdy colours of the scarf you wore
Ashamed you didn't fit my model,
I hid from you. Why
is it only now I hear
the twinkle that spoke
about your eyes?
Colours on which I stand
hand-made, in simpler days
fade with age to something fair
light refracted in a lifetime
of finely twisted memories
knotted in with patient silence
louder than my shouted words
In the dusk,
I see so clearly, outlined
in the fading yarns,
the whispered colours
of your sacrifice,
the stong, sure stitches
of your quiet love
Copyright ©2007 by Judith Frost