Another Poem For Mothers' Day

P A T C H W O R K

My mother was good at patchwork.
She painted the days of our lives
with the colours
of discarded fragments of cloth.
Prim and proper squares,
mystical triangles,
rumbunctious hexagons,
cut, trimmed, matched,
and joined together by the common thread
of her pain and tears.
Her deft fingers weaved the harmony
of surrealistic magic
and unfurled in splashes of rememberance
a blanket to warm our nights.
Mother is gone now
but I still hear her speak
in the flowers, colours, patterns
of this extraordinary patchwork
which is love's tapestry spanning time.