Cloudless days, cerulean blue skies,
tall grasses, buffeted by wavering breeze.
As hopping hares box merry in lustful March,
snowdrops harbinger spring and bring heartsease.
Patterns of nature fuse in my mind’s eye;
the images linger after seasons flush and cool.
Hand-sewn memories in silken thread,
on the finest linen, hang upon my wall.
With deft fingers, I prick out seedlings,
delicate French knots of blue delphinium,
Chain-stitched fences, squeaky garden gates;
I change my yarn to sombre ochre hues, for
marigolds and rusted curlicues.
Needle, thistle-sharp, darts in and out
among the purples; iris and lavender;
and hyacinths, pink rows of fragrant dots,
and tall larkspur.
My thoughts stroll on dusty autumn paths,
under back-stitched foliage of rouge and gold,
The sun serpents, through long stitched meadows,
birds haunt branches; mossy, gnarled, and old.
Cotoneaster, bold berries, bright,
soft spun filaments of spider webs,
orange fades in winter’s crisp white light.
Another season ebbs.
The hoop that holds my linen taut
girdles life, depicted in iridian threads.
A garden, wrought with love and patience;
the cyclical story of birth and death.