When I was very young I remember my mothers Quilting Bees. Ladies with their arms full of sewing baskets brimming with scraps of linen, Hats of so many different styles, purses in every shape and color all converging upon the dining room where they had pin cushions and scissors to occupy every chair. With their thimbles on their thumbs, straight pins in the corner of their mouth they would spend the day arguing about which tile should go where and how it should be presented, horizontally or vertically, to best mesh with the overall scheme. It all seemed a bit unnerving to me at the time but years later I could appreciate that what I saw as complete confusion was really just creativity being asserted among so many different tastes.
Often our neighbor Julie would come along with her mother and we would crawl underneath the table well out of the way of the colorful and pointed pumps and heels and just listen to the voices of the women so full of excitement, seething with stories to share over hot mugs of Coffee, Tea, and Cocoa. Sometimes Julie would let me hold her hand amongst all that chaos and it was like sharing a secret right under so many motherly noses. Many years later upon a quiet and reserved reflection of those events I wrote this poem.
LINEN
Thin is Linen like Flesh
Soft and smooth like a lovers caress
Breathe through open pores
Of fine thread
In singular strands
Like fingers interlocking
Hands holding Hands
Fingers and Hands
Weave and Mesh
There is strength in the Linen
The Hands
And the Flesh.
Christopher Brant