To My Mothers

Not for me these pizza-cutter methods,
zipping together a quilt top in a weekend.
Rather, savour it as a sacred thing,
ancient ritual repeated,
communion with my mothers.
More than mere fabric --
life's mosaic
binding piece to piece,
generation to generation.
I carry on their primitive rhythm,
needle and chair rocking together,
and hear the gentle lesson --
Use every scrap offered, discarding nothing.
Weave in contentment, sorrow too.
Stitch with joy, bind in pain,
blending together,
indiscernible in the end.
We can't always see the overall plan,
the beauty in each piece,
but we are diligent with details,
persevere in faith,
until the whole becomes clear,
the pieces suddenly coherent.
Ah! we say. Now I understand the pattern.
A little flawed, not quite straight,
the corners not quite aligned,
but mine, and many-layered.
The meaning is in the process, not the completion.
When you are sewing
the quilt wraps itself around you warmly --
a hug from your grandmothers.