A Quilter's Work

I have hesitated to speak about my mother, perhaps because I feel inadequate to speak of her. But I feel that I can capture at least a piece of her within my poetry, and maybe, at some point, you, the reader, will one day be able to construct an entire individual out of my words. But I doubt it. There are not enough poetic metaphors or well-structured verses or prose that could build up such an overwhelming multi-faceted human. I am proud to call her my mother, and stand in awe of her everyday. I only wish that I could give her more, not because she has given me everything I would ever need, but because she deserves as much, and that much more.
Tonight, I will be reciting my poetry as a final project for my Poetry Workshop class. Here is a Sonnet I wrote in admiration of my loving mother for that class:

A Quilter’s Work

I love the way she makes her quilts: controlled

and full of care. I’d watch her work for hours

In your sequestered sewing room; her old

and trusted Singer rattled with such power.

Blending batiks of hand-dyed fabrics, knitting

together textiled patterns lacking any

form, she would make a portrait, somehow fitting

a multitude of shapes to form a whole.

And yet, mistakes would weave and thread their way

into the finished product. Laughing she

would say, “artistic choice,” and fold away

the blemished artwork tailored to be skewed.

Sometimes I think she made me like your quilts:

some minor imperfections, but well built.