Today's poetry prompt is to write about a tool. It's odd that there were only two candidates for subject matter in my mind, even though the growing deck is busy with power and wood working tools of all kinds and the kitchen is well stocked with cullinary tools. I've used so many tools for writing - from pencil to computer. The pencil was a candidate for the poem. But the tool of my heart seems to be one I use less often these days.
Needle and Thread
I keep my grandmother's needles,
safely in the powder puff she
stored in the sewing machine drawer.
I keep my mother's needles
stuck in fat red tomato cushions
I played with while she hemmed.
I cried when I discovered that
time had weakened my grandmother's
thread, my mother's thread.
Careful colors saved on Kleenex
cardboard, wooden spools, paper spools,
I finally threw away. They could not hold.
My grandmother, my mother, taught me
to use needle and thread before I read well
or could make my letters. Needle and thread,
tools of creation, restoration, artistic expression
connect me back and forward. My granddaughter
sews ribbons on pointe shoes with my needle.
April 8, 2010