The gallery even smells like quilts.
I stand before my mother’s own handiwork
Displayed on the wall,
When I hear a commotion to the left
At the white block pedestal labeled
“Please, do not touch.”
Two white-haired ladies peer at
The sphere
The first gawking at the flying geese
The second picking up the ball!
And explaining how she made it.
Some glue here, some pins there, some stitches between
“Just a bunch of scraps.”
Appalled, the first lady scolds,
“It is NOT just a bunch of scraps!”
I drift near
divining the poinsettia center button
Came from Morocco
And the core of the globe
Light foam.
The first lady gives me a
Conspiratorial glance
“The hardest part,” she says
“Is finding the idea.”
And I think,
How God must delight
Watching us admire
The scraps.
Above: The Globe
Below: My Mom's quilt
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