think of needle and thread
the way it winds yarn and silk
creating warm fabric sheets
that shore us against the breaking wind
and the beautiful fingers that clutch and pull
like a song-running pathway
pacing over folds and buttons
the method carried on
generation after generation
from ancient grandmother
to fresh, sweet daughters
they come in quilted ways
to hang in tapestry halls
swaddling infant sons
they are keepsakes from our past
we dream of the warmth
shared by families of old
and conjure up fanciful stories
that are never seldom told
for history is in the making
and the working hands of men
they come home to their mothers
to confess their brand of sin
i wonder if they know
how we think of them again
how we read the patchwork story
from the dusty attic within
and if we should ever meet
in this world or the next
will the stories we have shared
fade with mortal light
or will we still see
the song of fingers falling
bound by thread and stitching
to remember what once was
the mother and the daughter
and the son that never came

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/22/12


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