She used to knit doilies for living room end tables,
to place under lamps and African violets,
protecting wood finish or
place upon arms and backs of chairs,
keeping furniture fabric
free of oil from skin and hair.
Her mother did the same with well worn sticks,
twirling stitches, replicating forms
over and over. I wondered,
if she ever dared create a completely new design,
invent an original stitch or
sat quietly in her doily draped chair
resisting an urge to change, saying not today.
I don’t own a doily, but I see them
in daydreams, run knots
through fingers, feel the passage of time.
Her insistent voice telling me
put them back where they belong.
10-12-20
My husband's poetry 
Leave a comment