A Poem By My For My Grandmother

 

SEWING

 

It is late in the morning,

A warm spring day.

Through the open windows,

Come gentle breezes.

Too young for school,

My day is spent with her.

I watch her hands,

Her fingers still deft and precise.

The needle goes in,

The thread pulls taught.

 

“I want to sew, Granny.”

I scoot a little closer to her.

She shows me a box of scraps,

So many bright colors.

“What can I make?”

She works on a quilt.

I watch her face intently,

Her eyes never void of love.

The needle goes in,

The thread pulls taught.

 

“Who taught you to sew?”

I search the box for the right pieces.

“Does Grampa sew, too?”

I form an idea of what to make for her.

My little fingers are too stubby,

To thread the eye of the needle.

She does it with ease.

“Boys can sew, too?”

The needle goes in,

The thread pulls taught.

 

“This piece is the color of sky!”

She wraps her arms around me,

And pulls me a little closer.

She takes my hands into hers,

And begins to teach me.

“Have you ever seen Germany?”

I try to be very careful.

The needle could hurt.

The needle goes in,

The thread pulls taught.

 

The gift I work on,

Comes from my heart.

In my five-year old eyes,

It is the most beautiful present ever.

Granny will cherish it for many years,

That purse made from scraps.

She kisses me and tells me I’m loved,

Then works again on the quilt in her lap.

The needle goes in,

The thread pulls taught.

 

Granny whispers in my ear,

Sprinkles of wisdom and love.

Outside I hear the old familiar truck coughing,

“Here comes Grampa!”

She whispers one more thing in my ear,

A twinkle glimmers in her eye.

Grampa beams with pride when I shout,

“Gooden nockmiddock, Hair Grampa!”

The needle goes in,

The thread pulls taught.

 

Eddie C Dollgener Jr